Nightingale
by Andixa
Summary: An old friend of Methos' shows up at the barge, with a crazed samurai hot on his heels. Past slash Methos/MOC. MacLeod POV. Reposted/updated.
1. MacLeod gets a phone call

I am re-editing the whole thing… changing some nitpicky things, removing stuff that was too hokey or didn't make sense, etc. This was my first (and probably only) attempt at original characters; I'm not a huge fan of OCs myself, but he just wouldn't stop nagging me.

I tried to make the names as easy to remember as possible, but - given the amount of time covered in the flashbacks - there are multiple names for certain characters. Not everyone can live 400+ years with the same name **cough*duncanmacleod*cough** so… yeah. Sorry.

Chapter 1

Paris, France - 2012

MacLeod was on his feet and armed before he was fully awake, jolted out of bed by a shiver of immortal presence down his spine. Centuries of training had him checking the shadows, listening for the faintest of sounds - even the scent of cologne - anything that could identify the danger.

Nothing.

The barge was empty, rolling gently with the waves of the Seine. Whoever the buzz belonged to, they were close - maybe right above his head. He held still, but there were no footsteps overhead, no dip in the boat's gentle sway.

Holding his katana in one hand, MacLeod shoved his legs into a pair of slacks and peered out a porthole. A few unfamiliar cars, stragglers going early to market, fishermen walking the docks... nothing about the grey Paris morning caught his buzz remained stationary.

What new crisis was brewing, this time?

A sudden noise behind him, and he turned, brandishing his blade at... his cell phone?

_Getting paranoid in my old age_, he scolded himself. Not that he didn't have reason, given the last few years. He looked back out the porthole, flipping his phone open with one hand.

"MacLeod."

"I need your help."

Now he knew there was trouble. Methos had hightailed it a few months ago at the first sight of snow, and warm weather was still weeks away. A phone call could only mean some mess was about to land square in his lap.

"What is it now, Methos?"

His ancient friend huffed into the phone - _hmm, now who is that_? Outside on the far edge of the dock, near the road, was a tallish man in a long coat. Relatively handsome, well-groomed, and standing conspicuously still - typical immortal. He was a hundred feet away, maybe one-fifty, but still felt close; he must be very powerful, or very old.

"Alright, Highlander. Don't interrupt. An old friend of mine is on the run, and you were the closest option. He needs protection. I would have called sooner, but my plane just touched down," - as if to prove his point, a baby started crying somewhere in the background. "He'll probably be on your doorstep in the next half hour, if he's not there already. I've got a layover to catch; I should be able to meet you both at Joe's tonight."

"Listen, Methos, I-"

"Yes or no, highlander. I don't have the time."

"I- yes. Fine. But this better not be anything illegal."

"I'll be there as soon as humanly possible."

MacLeod was left with the dial tone. The blond man was, apparently, another of Methos' _friends_. Not exactly a glowing recommendation, given the old man's track record… but they couldn't _all_ be evil megalomaniacs, right? At least this one wasn't sporting any ruffled silk, scars, and-or black leather.

"You are such a pain in my ass, old man."

Well, no time like the present. Shirt, socks, shoes, wallet, his favorite coat, and MacLeod was ready for his latest misadventure. As he pulled open the barge's heavy front door, he found himself almost excited at the prospect of meeting one of Methos' more respectable friends. They could visit the corner cafe to breakfast and discuss the man's predicament, maybe even get a few friendly jabs in at Methos. The door screeched closed, reminding MacLeod that he'd planned to oil the hinges this weekend.

After taking a few seconds to wrest the deadbolt into place, he turned and nearly tripped on his own feet; only decades of training (and a well-placed handrail) kept him upright.

There was a man - an immortal - not six feet in front of him, sitting on the roof of his barge. Watching him through oversized sunglasses.

MacLeod found himself doing a surprisingly good impression of a fish, and snapped his mouth closed.

They watched each other for a moment, the Scot sizing up his unexpected visitor. Scruffy, disheveled, dark-haired, and very short, he was not in any way, shape, or form the blond man MacLeod had set out to meet. That man, MacLeod realized with a hint of embarrassment, was just some businessman waiting for his bus to arrive. Unnerved, he reached for his sword.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he announced, "I have no quarrel with you. What are you doing on my property?"

With a heavy accent and a curl of his lip, the man replied: "Niimura Tooru."

He flicked his cigarette into the river, exhaling the last lungful of smoke through his nose as he looked MacLeod up and down.

"Methos sent me."

Reluctantly, MacLeod nodded. "You can tell me more inside," he turned the rusty lock again, shaking his head, "I'm doing this as a favor. That doesn't mean I won't defend myself, so don't give me a reason."

Rolling his eyes, Niimura hoisted a bulky rucksack over one shoulder and followed him through the doorway. He settled into Duncan's couch as easily as Methos ever had, pushing aside throw pillows and putting his feet up on the coffee table.

MacLeod continued past, into the kitchen. Rolling his eyes at his own behavior, he put the kettle on and prepared to play the good host.

"Make yourself at home. I have filtered water and juice, or I can put on tea if you'd like. I can't say I was expecting visitors, but I can rustle something up." He poked his head out of the kitchen. "Niimura?"

The rude little man was asleep!

Rolling his eyes again, MacLeod flopped into his desk chair. _Now what?_ He wasn't about to sit idle, not with a complete stranger - an immortal stranger - sleeping on his couch.

He grabbed his cell phone.

A few calls around to his (somewhat less than legal) contacts confirmed that a man named Tooru Niimura had booked eight different red-eye flights out of Germany this morning, landing in London, New York, Texas, Hong Kong, Cairo, Argentina, Rome - and, yes, Paris. Raising an eyebrow at the sleeping man, he scrolled through the rest of his contact list, looking for a friendly immortal who might have run into him over the years. He wasn't quite ready to hassle Joe for the information, at least not yet.

Amanda was delighted to hear his voice, since she'd been busy in America for the last few years, but couldn't do anything for him. The de Valicourts had only recently met Methos, and neither Gina nor Robert had ever encountered an immortal matching Niimura's description. Grace was equally unhelpful.

He finally got a response from Cory Raines of all people. After laughing for a minute - _an entire minute straight_ - Cory assured him (as much as Cory could) that the stranger was a relatively safe houseguest.

"The little birdy showed up on _your _doorstep? And here I had no idea you even knew Ben, the ol' troublemaker! This guy's fine, just fine. Look, why don't you give Ceirdwyn a buzz? She'll be able to tell you a little more."

"Ben? _Ceirdwyn_? How-"

"Listen, Mac, it's been nice talking but I gotta go. The police are knocking - at least I hope it's the police. Good luck with shorty. Call Ceirdwyn."

The line went dead, and MacLeod looked back at Niimura. Ceirdwyn? Stranger and stranger. Somehow he couldn't see her associating with the scruffy immortal, or with Cory Raines for that matter. Or Methos with either of them. Not for the first time, he wondered how much trouble the old man got into when he wasn't pretending to be old and wise.

Well, it was worth a shot. He dialed her number - like many immortals, she had a sophisticated forwarding service to guarantee her friends could find her in an emergency - and waited to be routed through. His phone bill was going to be impressive after this.

"Ceirdwyn, this is Duncan MacLeod. I'm sorry to call you on this line, but-"

"What do you need, Duncan?"

"Not much, actually. I just need some information, and _Cory Raines _pointed me in your direction. To be honest, I wasn't aware you two even knew each other."

"Cory? He was the student of one of my students. I haven't seen either of them in decades - we're not exactly close. They're not in trouble, are they?"

"No, nothing like that. I had an immortal show up on my doorstep, someone by the name of Niimura Tooru, a friend of- ah, well, a friend of a friend. At least he says he is. Do you know anything about him?"

"I'm sorry, I haven't heard the name. What does he look like?"

"Short, Japanese, a bit rough around the edges... really short. It looks like he's got a few tattoos, but those could be new. Cory mentioned someone named Ben?"

"Benjamin's little friend?" Ceirdwyn laughed. "You had me worried for nothing. Benjamin sent him to me a few times as well, for safekeeping. He's a perfect- well, not a perfect gentleman, but he's certainly not dangerous. I'm sure Ben will be along to gather him up in no time. Give me a call when the dust settles - I never got a chance to find out for myself, but I hear there's a headhunter on his tail, some deranged old samurai. Good luck."

MacLeod said his goodbyes and tossed the phone onto his desk. His gaze settled on the couch, glaring at the rumpled man and his dirty boots. As if in reply, the immortal snorted and started snoring.

_Ben_, he grumbled to himself, better be along in no time, alright.


	2. A walk down memory lane

Chapter 2

At quarter to three, MacLeod looked up from his book to see Niimura drag himself off the couch and into the bathroom. After draining the barge's hot water heater, he emerged wearing the same rumpled clothes, and flopped back down on the couch.

"Ready to talk?"

The immortal put his dirty shoes back up on the table.

"I assume he old bastard didn't fill you in," he started. "It's not exactly complicated. I've got an immortal samurai tailing my ass, and it would be best all around if he didn't catch me. There you go - simple."

That agreed with what he'd gotten from Ceirdwyn, but it wasn't much to go on.

"Alright, look. I believe you. But Methos sent you here so I could protect you, and if I'm going to do that, I need to know the whole story. I need to know what I'm up against. Besides," he set his book down on the table, "we've got hours before the old man gets here. Tell me about this samurai. How long have you been running from him?"

While he detailed his most recent discovery and flight out of Germany, MacLeod took stock of the shorter man. And, oh, the was man short - the kind of short that didn't naturally survive in the Game. He stood about five foot two by MacLeod's guess, plus a few inches of disheveled hair. Not quite handsome, he wore his designer jeans stuffed into heavy boots (untied, MacLeod frowned), a thin printed t-shirt, and a windbreaker with the collar popped up. His hands moved absently as he spoke, thin and tattooed, with a casual grace that didn't quite match the rest of him.

He had a squarish face and a short nose, thick lips with several piercings on one side, and uneven teeth. The sunglasses had been taken off for his shower, revealing an eyebrow piercing and brown eyes. He'd lapsed into Japanese at some point, his old-fashioned accent recalling MacLeod's first visit to the island.

"It used to take him decades to pick up my trail. But now, with all this damn technology, he can find one picture and be on an airplane within the hour."

Niimura reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded and creased piece of paper. Flattening it out on the coffee table, he sighed.

"This is how he found me."

It was a cheap handwritten flier, the type MacLeod often saw posted around the University advertising local bands. The picture at the bottom was unmistakably Niimura, holding a microphone and baring his crooked teeth.

"So you just keep running. How good is he with a sword?"

"I can't take his head."

And it would be hard, MacLeod considered, for the short man to take anyone, let alone a trained samurai. Most immortals were tall and powerful, built to fight. Even Amanda was taller than the modern average, and must have towered over other women when she was mortal. Those who were not so lucky typically died young.

Niimura huffed, picking at a corners of his flier. The words seemed to rush out against his will. "Jubei, the samurai - he was my... teacher. My father, if you can call him that. His name was Akechi Mitsuhide, and he was the only family I knew. He named me Akechi Mitsuyoshi, and raised me to be a samurai. I hated him, but I was loyal."

MacLeod's lips thinned. Loyalty could be a prickly subject, especially when fathers and teachers are involved. When the cards were down, who would this man side with? Would he betray the ancient immortal?

"And Methos? How did he become involved?" And why did he give you his real name? The question burned on his tongue, but he couldn't ask. It sounded too much like jealousy, even in his own head.

"He was called to see to one of Jubei's servants. He was an ugly foreigner, of course, but also a doctor - a very good one."

Sakamoto Castle, Japan - 1575

_Young and desperately thin, Yoshi peered through a gap in the door. A foreign man, taller and more fearsome than even his father Mitsuhide, loomed over dear Chiyo, muttering and mixing his evil concoctions. He recognized the man from outside the medicine shop on the far northern side of town, where his nursemaid or tutors would occasionally bring him along. There, he had been a curiosity, with his uncommon height and nose like a bird's beak. Up close, he was frightening. _

"_Shh, shh," the doctor hissed at her, talking in his ugly foreign language. Was he comforting her, or casting some wicked spell? _

_Yoshi was torn. He'd heard the woman's cries, his pillow unable to block out the night's evil sounds. He hated to hear her in pain, even though it meant that he would receive no visitor tonight. But then came the heavy footfalls on the porch and through the servants' corridor; those were new. And so he'd ventured down to the servants' quarters, driven by curiosity and dread, and found himself outside the thin door. _

_Chiyo was vaguely middle aged, the servant of Mitsuhide's wife Tsumaki Hiroko - herself a woman of high nobility, who was seldom seen outside her lavish chambers. Chiyo had been kind to him since Mitsuhide took him in, reading him stories when he was younger, and tending to his hurts once his training had begun. She was also quite pretty in her own modest way, without all that silly paint women put on their faces. And though she suffered more of Akechi Mutsuhide's attentions than most, she bore it without complaint._

"_You can come inside, if you'd like. I won't hurt you."_

_His body jerked. The foreign doctor had seen him! He shifted the door and entered, bowing low. Would the doctor do some terrible magic to him? Would he tell Mitsuhide?_

"_Stand up, stand up. It's good that you're here. Chiyo," he nodded towards the bed, "has a few cuts and bruises, nothing too serious. But one of her ribs is also broken, and she'll need someone to help her lift heavy things for a while. I think you're just the person to help." _

_The boy bowed lower, unable to keep the relief out of his voice. Chiyo was alright!_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Hey, now. Look at me. There we go." The foreigner took his chin gently, tilting his face up to stare into alien grey eyes. Kind eyes, Yoshi decided. The man's lips quirked, sharing a little smile, like he knew Yoshi inside and out. He felt himself returning the smile shyly. _

"_Now, why don't you go sit with her. I'm sure she'd love to see you." _

_Yoshi lowered himself to the floor next to Chiyo's bed. Her face was flushed with pain, but her ribs were neatly bandaged and she was resting quietly. Half aware of the foreign man puttering around with his medicines, he tried his best to comfort her, singing quietly and stroking her hair. He loved to sing, and Chiyo always said she liked hearing him. _

_After a few moments, the doctor glanced over to him. "Can I ask your name?"_

"_Akechi Mitsuyoshi, sir. Everyone calls me Yoshi, though."_

"_A nice name, little nightingale. Mine is Matthew. What could you possibly be doing down here at this hour?"_

"_My bedroom is down the hall. My father-"_

_Matthew's head snapped up suddenly, like he'd heard a far-off nose. Footsteps?_

_His brow was furrowed in concern when he looked back down at his young acquaintance, but then there was that smile again, those twinkling grey eyes. _

"_That's... looks like it's time for me to go. But I'll be back tomorrow to check on Chiyo." He crouched down, glancing up at the creaking ceiling. "After that, I'm thinking of leaving the city - or maybe even Japan. Have you ever thought of visiting China, or England?"_

Paris, France - 2012

"So you were mortal when you met?"

"Yes. We met only briefly. He was supposed to check up on the servant the next day. But," Niimura's eyes flickered away, "he could not. We didn't meet for several years after that."

"Let me guess. Methos realized the house belonged to another immortal, and ran off to Bora Bora without you?"

"That's not what happened!" Niimura gave him a dirty look and, in a shocking display of petulance, knocked a clump of dry mud off his boot. "Hey, you're a terrible host. Aren't you going to offer me a beer or something?"

Ill mannered but, MacLeod conceded to himself, he could use a drink too. The man was prone to long pauses and staring off into space - something most immortals tended to do when thinking about the past. MacLeod suspected there was more to the story than Niimura let on.

There was no beer - Methos hadn't been around for months - but he had a few good bottles of wine left over from Amanda's last visit. He opened a bottle and placed it in front of his _guest_, and retreated to the kitchen for glasses.

"I can make breakfast, or I have cold cuts if you'd prefer. It's nearly time for an early dinner, but you've been asleep for most of the day." What was it about the kitchen that turned him into Mother MacLeod all of a sudden?

"This is fine." Tattooed fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle. He isn't going to - yes, he was. It had been a while since MacLeod saw someone chug a bottle of wine.

"Methos didn't abandon me. He had no choice. Jubei had us packed up and half way across Japan by morning; I was gone."

Kamiyama Castle, Japan - 1577

_The sudden move had been upsetting for Yoshi, who had lived in Sakamoto for as long as he could remember. Most of the servants had been left behind, replaced by strangers and soldiers from Mitsuhide's army. Yoshi's tutors were gone as well, throwing his studies into disarray until acceptable replacements could be found. _

_All because of that foreign doctor._

_Shortly after Matthew had slipped away out a side door, Mitsuhide came storming down the stairs, drunk and waving his sword, demanding to know who had invaded his home. He barely noticed Yoshi's presence in the room. When he heard the foreign doctor's description, he went pale, and suddenly they were packing their valuables. All Yoshi knew was that his father was terrified, something he'd never imagined could happen - and it had something to do with the foreigner._

_Yoshi sighed, gazing out his window at misty farmland. In front of him was a slip of cheap paper, shoved between the pages of a book of Chinese military strategy, creased and stained with yellow wax. He'd spent most of his free time reading the letter over, smiling and writing notes to himself in the margins. _

_It was, against all reason, Matthew's most recent letter. _

_Still tied to the region politically, and with his wife and wealth still housed in Sakamoto castle, Mitsuhide received a weekly parcel of mail and posted return letters almost daily. The first letter arrived only a month after the move - a little note from Kaori, a young servant girl they left behind in the move. Only, it wasn't actually from Kaori._

_At first, Yoshi couldn't figure out why she would write to him. Kaori an attendant to Mitsuhide's wife Hiroko, about his age and extremely shy; he couldn't recall ever actually speaking to her. But then, loneliness preventing him from discarding the letter without another thought, he noticed the dainty birds decorating the edges of the paper. Nightingales, he thought, and at once remembered the foreign doctor. The man had apparently disguised his words and handwriting and assumed Kaori's name, in order to assure himself of Yoshi's wellbeing._

_The reason for the deception was of course Mitsuhide himself, who demanded to read through every letter that passed through Kamiyama castle. Why the doctor needed to communicate in secret, and why he wanted to communicate at all, Yoshi had no idea. _

_For three years they kept up the correspondence. Matthew wrote in a carefully feminine script, decorating the edges of his paper with lovely filigree vines and flowers, and Yoshi reported the harmless details of his life as a samurai's apprentice. Although at first the foreigner had only meant to confirm that Yoshi was alive and well, they were soon discussing everything from cooking, to poetry, to strange western philosophies. _

_The letters were a little ray of sunshine, trapped as he was in the castle. His life with his father was as wretched as it always had been: days occupied by hard training, nights with drunken feasts and political maneuvering, and other darker things that he tried not to think about. _

_Yoshi sighed again. The last letter he sent had been more grim than most, written after a very bad night of Mitsuhide's attentions. He'd finally admitted to his friend, in a sort of sideways and unspoken way, just how miserable he was. It seemed like Mitsuhide was becoming rougher and more cruel every day. _

_He had not received a response, and it worried him. He did not want to think that the foreigner was in trouble, in such a dangerous time. Mitsuhide himself was wrapped up in the middle of it all, as the trusted general of the great Odo Nobunaga. Just this month they had begun plans for a siege against Matsunaga Hisahide and his son in Shigisan. Luckily, it seemed, Nobunaga was keeping Mitsuhide and his servants far too busy to bother reading his apprentice's letters. _

_There was a noise downstairs, bringing Yoshi out of his daydream. He reached for his sword. Was this it? Had Matsunaga realized their plans, and come to wipe out the Akechi family?_

_But it was Mitsuhide himself who burst through the door and took the sword from his hand. Before he knew it, his own blade was against his neck, and he was held hostage by his father. _

_For a tense moment, he found himself staring into wild grey eyes. _

"_Let the boy go, Jubei. I'm not here for your head."_

_Matthew! Yoshi could scarcely believe his own eyes or ears. He'd never thought-_

"_Get out. Get out or I'll cut his throat, and he'll be a scrawny little boy for the rest of his short life. Maybe you'd like that, Rōjin. You know I wouldn't mind. Or maybe I'll cut a little deeper."_

_Blood trickled down Yoshi's neck._

_And just like that, he saw his hope falter, back down. Matthew looked away, the muscles in his jaw clenched. _

"_This isn't over, Jubei. He won't be young forever."_

Niimura reached for his bottle again, and drained it.

"We kept up a correspondence for several years. At one point he tried to help me escape, but Jubei held a sword to my throat and threatened to bleed me dry - to make me immortal, I guess. Methos left, rather than seeing me die at sixteen." He gave a dry laugh. "If you think I'm short now, you should have seen me then."

"Dying in one's prime can be advantageous-"

"No shit. I can't imagine living five centuries in a teenager's body." He waved his empty bottle at the taller man. "Any more where this came from - something with a little more kick?"

"I've got a few more bottles of wine, but nothing stronger. We'll be meeting Methos at Joe's bar when his flight gets in. You can get as drunk as you want once you're the old man's problem."

"Perfect. Let's go now." Niimura was suddenly up and ready to go, bag over his shoulder and sunglasses back in place. "I wanna get trashed."

Before MacLeod could even stand up, the other immortal was out the door and calling over his shoulder, "We can pick up dinner on the way." MacLeod gathered his shoes and coat, wondering to himself why he always ended up with the pushy immortals.


	3. Dinner and a show

Chapter 3

Dinner along the way turned into a quick dine-in at Maurice's new restaurant, MacLeod having argued his companion down from a greasy burger joint. Niimura didn't seem to mind, considering he was halfway through his second steak dinner. Maurice was beside himself.

"Mr. MacLeod, your friends - they always have such huge appetite! You must bring them around more often." He smiled at Niimura, carefully not looking at the lip piercings. "Why, that Amanda woman! The last time she was here, she had one each from my wonderful dessert menu."

"I know, Maurice. I paid for it, remember?"

"What a woman! What an appetite! Here, here, you must try this wine with the chicken, it is excellent." The Frenchman set down the bottle he'd been waving around and poured a generous glass for MacLeod. Niimura watched the display with interest.

"And you, my friend, I will get the perfect wine. Perhaps the '87 Cabernet Sauvignon- no no, we are out of that, the Petite Sirah!" He toddled off towards the the bar, manned by a harried-looking teen. "The '82 Petite Sirah, to match the wonderful sirloin, Andre!"

"He's...interesting." Niimura watched the Frenchman shuffle through a wine rack, groaning a bit as he bent to read the lower bottles.

"Interesting is the right word, alright. Listen, earlier - I didn't mean to offend you. Methos and I have a history. Take what I say about him with a grain of salt."

The Japanese man smirked around his a bite of potato. "I'd be more worried if you were singing his praises. It's fine."

MacLeod swirled his wine around in the glass, not really interested in drinking it. "I'd like to hear the rest, but if you're uncomfortable-"

"Eh. You asked. And you're putting your life on the line, just because Methos asked." Niimura smirked again. "Besides, there's not much else for us to talk about. Methos let me read your chronicles."

MacLeod was still spluttering when Maurice returned to the table with a second bottle of wine.

"Yes, yes, as I was saying. It is always wonderful to have you and your friends in, Mr. MacLeod. Just yesterday a friend of yours came in - now what was his name? - and you could just sense that he was an important person. Such propriety, such presence - just like you, Mr. MacLeod. Although his taste if company was lacking - the men he was with! Tattoos, earrings in all sorts of strange places, and- er, that is, not to say there is anything wrong with..."

Duncan sat up in his chair, sending the other immortal a look of alarm. The kind of _friends _who show up at Maurice's, but don't invite themselves onto his couch or into his bed, were bad news. "Maurice, what friend of mine? Was it Joe?"

"No no, not the American. This man was also Japanese, I think, or from some Asian country. One should not assume-"

"Maurice, how did you know he was my friend? What did you say to him?" Knowing Maurice the way he did, MacLeod had a good idea where this was going, and could only hope the Frenchman hadn't given up too much information.

"Why, he was asking after you, of course. He wanted to know where you could be found these days. I know, I know, you do not like being easy to find," Maurice gave him a long suffering look, "so I merely told him that you are here often for lunch. I figure, maybe he will come back to find you, and perhaps enjoy another wonderful meal as well. What was that name? _Jean, Jeux, Jeuue-something_, I'm sure of it."

Niimura dropped his fork.

"Jubei?"

"Yes, that was it. Very impressive fellow. He left his number, in case you came by, let me just-"

"That's fine, Maurice. I'm sure we'll run into each other." In fact, he's probably watching the place right now. "Do me a favor and send Andre over with the check. I'm afraid we're in a bit of a hurry."

"Of course, Mr. MacLeod. You are a very busy man! But first let me get your friend a glass of water - is he ill?" Niimura was hunched in his seat, his dinner forgotten. "Perhaps he has over indulged? The food is quite rich, and he is not a large man..."

"He's fine, Maurice. The check?"

"Yes yes, alright!"

Maurice bustled away towards the register, and MacLeod turned to the other immortal, who was staring out the window.

"He found me quickly, this time. You're a good friend to Methos, for trying to protect me," he took a shuddering breath, "but if it comes down to my life or yours, let him take me."

"I canna-!"

"If he wanted to kill me, I'd be dead a thousand times over!" Niimura practically shouted. People in the restaurant were staring, and he was momentarily grateful for the language barrier.

"Let him take me. Methos will find me - he always does."

Somewhere in China - 1801

_All he knew was the ache of his muscles, the smell of pain and sweat and other nastier things. It was dark and cold, cold, cold - colder because his body was struggling to produce new blood._

_He wrapped himself up in his kimono - really, Jubei, a women's silk kimono? - and waited._

_A presence tickled his senses, and his painted eyes flickered closed._

"_Now if I knew I was rescuing such a lovely princess, I would have cleaned myself up a little first." _

_His eyes shot open. "Methos?"_

"_So you do remember me. It's been, what, twenty years? I thought you'd have forgotten." Shackles clattered to the ground. "Tell me you haven't been caged up here the entire time, nightingale."_

_Voice rough from disuse, he tried to laugh. "No, only a month. Jubei caught up to me in- wait, where is Jubei?" Brown eyes searched Methos's face. "You can't have killed him, please tell me you didn't-"_

Niimura Tooru blinked, trying to clear away the memory.

"We can go out the back. Come on." MacLeod threw a wad of bills on the table and pulled the other immortal to his feet. They weaved through a few tables and out the back door, ignoring startled luncheoners and Maurice's fading protestations. Out in the alley, a wave of presence hit them hard and MacLeod turned left towards the warehouse district. Niimura might be afraid to fight the samurai, but MacLeod was not.

"Leaving so soon, my boy?"

A large man stepped out of the shadows in front of them, throwing shadows like a half remembered nightmare. His face was broad and puffy, with beady eyes that leered at MacLeod from a sword's length away.

"It looks like you have a thing for tall _gaijin_, boy. Who would've thought," Jubei drew the tip of his katana down Niimura's cheek, scratching out a line of blood, "after you slept my wife."

Niimura said nothing, but shied his head away from the sword.

"You remember Ayame, don't you, little Yoshi? What you did to her? You're the reason she died, such a young girl in the flower of her youth. You owe me." He smile was sickly sweet. "And for once your Rōjin isn't here to protect you."

MacLeod drew his katana, and batted Jubei's away. "Enough. I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. If you want him, you'll have to come through me first."

Jubei moved forward, but was blocked by a sword against his own. "You cannot interfere, _highlander_." He spat out the word; apparently he didn't care for MacLeod's reputation. "I heard you believe in a fair fight."

"This doesn't look like a challenge to me." Duncan looked over at Niimura, whose head was still turned away. If the shorter man was carrying a sword, he hadn't drawn it. "So fight me, or get out."

Jubei narrowed his eyes. "Then we fight. But I'm afraid I'm on the higher ground."

He gave a whistle, and a half-dozen mortals stepped out of the shadows behind him. Dressed casually - no movie-magic ninja costumes - they all had swords and knives at the ready. MacLeod stepped back in preparation before Jubei rushed him.

He parried the first blow and ducked under one of the mortals' swords. With only so much room to work with, three of the mortals hung back while the others assisted their master. One of them was able to glance his sword arm with a throwing knife, but a second throw went wide and nearly hit Jubei.

There was a shout, and Niimura joined the fray.

_Is this your idea of a fair fight, samurai? _he wanted to ask, but he was too busy managing the three well-trained mortals. One fell to the pavement, knocked out cold by the hilt of MacLeod's sword. The second was not so lucky, dying with his own blade against his neck. Then the rest were gone - MacLeod didn't remember hitting them - and he was fighting the samurai one-on-one.

"Just you and me now, Jubei. I'll give you one more chance - stop coming after Niimura, get out of Paris, and I'll let you live."

"He's mine, highlander. You can't have him. No one will take him from me. Not you, and definitely not Rōjin. Not this time!"

Jubei attacked again, swinging his blade wildly at his opponent. Dodge. Parry. Dodge. Thrust. MacLeod forced the other immortal backwards, up against a fire escape. Sparks flew as they fought around the steel bars.

Jubei was good, very good, but not quite good enough. Anger drove his blows faster, stronger, and less controlled. His swing went wide, knocking him off balance, and it was over; MacLeod's katana drove straight through his ribs.

He fell with a wet thud, already bleeding out.

The alley was silent, except for MacLeod's rough breathing. He didn't look back for Niimura, didn't take his eyes off of his enemy.

He was raising his sword to make the final blow, when automatic gunfire ripped into the alley. Two bullets hit his right shoulder, knocking him back. Before he could recover, strong fingers wrapped around his arm and dragged him down the alley.

Niimura was just ahead moving at a dead run, pulling him blindly down one alley to the next. They didn't stop until a turn dumped them out onto the main road, a few blocks away from where they started. Then it was his turn to pull Niimura back, hiding in a recessed doorway.

"Here-" he fished a glove out of his pocket and used it to wipe the blood splatter off of the other man's face, "you look like an axe murderer. Will he be following us?"

"I don't know. He might. He won't stop until he finds me, or until Methos chases him off. And he won't fight fair, not if he can't guarantee he'll win. Is there holy ground nearby?"

Of course there was, Duncan groaned. Darius's old church was only a few blocks away. He'd only been back a few times since the priest had died, haunted by the loss - and later, by the dark quickening. But holy ground was holy ground, and right now they could do with a church that wouldn't ask too many questions about Darius's old friend.

They set off towards St. Julien, sticking to markets and crowded areas whenever possible in case Jubei sent mortals after them. A block away from the gates, an immortal presence slammed into them, and they noticed a sleek black sedan coming towards them. They sprinted the last few yards, pushing shoppers and tourists out of the way, and made it through wrought iron gates to relative safety.

Jubei was only seconds behind them, jumping out of the passenger side and following them onto holy ground. He grabbed at Niimura, trying to get a hand-hold on the short man.

A brief tug of war took place, Jubei's hard grip on Niimura's wrists and MacLeod's arm wrapped around his torso. The short immortal spit and growled, kicking out at his attacker. In a less dire situation, it might have been an amusing scene.

"Give it up, Jubei! This is holy ground."

"He is meant for me! My student, my disciple! Mine!"

Jubei pulled harder, and something popped in Niimura's arm. The short immortal growled and kept kicking.

"Mr. MacLeod, is this man bothering you?"

The voice startled all three immortals into silence. A withered old priest was standing quite close to them, smiling serenely. His face was familiar - one of Darius's good friends, who had known the priest for years without questioning his perpetual youth. If Duncan had known about the Watchers while Darius was still alive, he would have expected a tattoo on the man's wrist.

"Ian." Several younger, surprisingly sturdy priests were approaching. He relaxed his grip on Niimura, who yanked his arms away from Jubei and took several very large steps away from both of them. "Yes. My friend and I are looking for sanctuary. Can you help us?"

"Of course. This is a place of rest and safety. A place of peace." He turned to Jubei, still serene. "Sir, we welcome everyone at St. Julien's, but if you cannot leave these gentlemen in peace, you will have to leave."

"Not without my student, I won't. What do you think you can do, you old fool? You can't-"

"Sir, I'm afraid I must ask you to leave. Please go peacefully, before there is a scene." The old priest looked up to meet Jubei's eyes. "You may find my fellow priests and I know far more than you think, when it comes to your kind."

It was clear that the priest did, in fact, know exactly what he needed to know about their kind. Resentfully, Jubei turned on his heel and stepped off of holy ground, going no further than the sidewalk.

"I will go inside and call the police. For now, George," he nodded to a tall young man in grey robes, "will lock the gate, and we will all keep watch for you."

With a knowing smile, the priest excused himself inside.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Just… not used to this shit anymore, I guess." Niimura settled onto a stone bench. "I've had several lifetimes to get past it, and a lot of help. Most days, I forget he even exists. Then he shows up, and everything goes to hell again."

Greece, 1802

"_Please, help me. I can't stand this anymore. I can't escape him. Please. Methos!"_

"_If you'd just let me take his head... I'll find him tomorrow morning, and it will all be over."_

_He shuddered violently. "Take mine! I'd rather you have my quickening inside you."_

"_NO!" Methos roared, and his companion snarled back at him._

"_Just end it!"_

_Silence, then harsh breathing. Bruises from their earlier fistfight were slowly fading, although the old man's nose was healing crooked._

"_I just want it to end. I'm sorry."_

_Methos settled onto the bed. It was an argument they'd had many times before, and would have many times again. At least this time, no one drew swords. _

"_You've been through something terrible. It's alright to cry," he reached out to tilt the man's chin up. "Nightingale. It will end."_

"_He won't let it."_

"_That's where you're wrong. He's alive because you wish it. I would hunt him down right now, if you only ask. You could kill him yourself - Mai Ling and I have taught you well. It's your decision. It ends when you say it ends."_

_He looked up. Methos was watching him with absolute confidence in his eyes. Slowly, he relaxed, and the whirlwind in his mind started to settle. _

"_I suppose you're right. Why do you always have to be so wise?"_

"_Lots of experience." Methos stroked his cheek with his thumb, "You're still very young, my dear. You've got your whole life ahead of you; hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. Sometimes it will be hard, so hard, but you'll survive."_

"_And when I can't survive?"_

"_Do it anyway. And then you walk away. Don't live in the past like he does." Methos leaned towards him, several inches taller even sitting. "Live, nightingale. Grow stronger. There will always be a new day, as long as your head is still attached."_

The short immortal eyed Jubei through the bars. The man was just outside the gate, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger.

"He'll be gone soon. I hear sirens coming up the street."

Sure enough, a police car pulled up and Jubei retreated quickly to his car. George, the younger priest, unlocked the door and went out to greet the officer.

"So that bar you mentioned? I could use a drink, now."


	4. I need a drink

Chapter 4

Joe was cleaning a tray of beer mugs, in preparation for the after dinner rush, when his immortal threw open the door. Next to him was a short man sporting huge sunglasses, a grimace, and- yes, that was definitely a short sword hidden inside his windbreaker. The sword sat diagonally across his back, while the strap of his rucksack hid any suspicious bulges. It was a trick Joe had seen a few immortals use, but the pointed bump his left shoulder gave it away.

MacLeod took a seat at the bar in front of Joe, and the other man hurried past to the bathrooms.

"Glad you could drop by. Who's your friend?"

"Don't pretend you don't know already." Duncan glanced towards Joe's wrist, and the Watcher tattoo hidden under his sleeve.

"Shorty over there is an immortal? That's rough." Joe looked sideways at the Scot, the way he always did when digging for information. "What's his name?"

MacLeod snorted.

"No, seriously, who is he? I usually get a warning from an immortal's watcher before they show up on my doorstep."

"You mean _my_ doorstep."

"Yeah, yeah. Same difference."

Weighing the risks, Duncan decided that Joe would not be a problem as far as Methos was concerned.

"Methos has me babysitting an old friend-" he gave Joe a patient look, "-not _that_ old. He's been alive about as long as I have, goes by the name Niimura Tooru."

"No shit!" Joe tossed his bar rag into the sink, and gave MacLeod his full attention. "This just got interesting. You're sure it's Methos that sent him? He's not passing on a favor for some friend?"

"Yeah. At least, I don't think so. He said he met Methos before his first death. Why? What's this about?"

"Oh, you're in it deep, Mac. Let me guess, he's being chased by a samurai?"

Duncan nodded. "Goes by the name Jubei. We had a run-in earlier near St. Julien's - the guy is obsessed, and he doesn't fight fair. A priest had to call the cops to get him to leave."

"Jeeze." Joe shook his head. "Look, we knew about the samurai. I've had a few Watchers on him since he came into town - he likes to start bar brawls, and I don't need that kind of trouble. So don't worry about any unexpected visitors."

It was nice having a Watcher on your side, MacLeod thought absently.

"Your friend Niimura is what we like to call a 'free range' immortal - we can't keep a Watcher on him for more than a year, maybe two, before he up and vanishes. Some of his disappearances coincide with another immortal, this Jubei guy, showing up." Joe set a glass of water in front of MacLeod, and a bottle of tequila for the seat next to him. "Jubei's Watcher called in, said his guy just got off in Germany and was making a beeline for Paris. We thought he was after your head, but I guess we're looking at another 'flight of the nightingale'."

Dark eyebrows furrowed over his glass, and Joe grinned.

"That's his nickname - _nightingale_. The story is pretty famous back at HQ. Every couple of decades, Jubei drops everything to chase Niimura across the globe. Niimura inevitably runs to a third immortal, someone we believe is his second teacher. No one's really sure why the samurai is after him, or who this mysterious third immortal is."

"Not much of a mystery any more."

"Methos." Joe shook his head. "It figures - I finally find the identity of the _nightingale's _teacher, and I can't cash out the betting pool. Just how many myths do you think he's wrapped up in?"

MacLeod snorted. He'd given up on being offended by the Watcher organization, or surprised by Methos. "Who knows. Here comes your _nightingale_. At least now he's not covered in blood."

With a new t-shirt and wet hair, Tooru flopped down at the bar. Casting a sideways glance at the tequila, he asked "Watcher?"

"You got it, buddy. We know everything from your drink of choice to your shoe size. And we know you know about us. What we don't know-" the tequila cork gave a loud pop, "-is why your first teacher has been trying to kill you for the past five hundred years."

China- 1717

_Cold steel pressed against his neck, and a body against his back. No. No no nonono-_

"_Yoshi, my boy, it's been too long." The blade cut into his skin. "I'm starting to think you don't care about me anymore."_

_He was flipped around, still held tight, so Mitsuhide could see his face. The blade kept him from turning away, forcing him to look up at the samurai. _

"_Where is your precious Rōjin - or is he still calling himself Matthew?" No answer, and Mitsuhide sneered, "Looks like he's finally bored of you, after all these years. But don't worry - we can have lots of fun, just the two of us..."_

Niimura's rings clinked against the side of the tequila bottle. He took a swig before answering in English for Joe's sake, "He wants_..._ not my head. He wants me. He wants to hurt me."

Remembering the scene in the alley, MacLeod asked, "What about the girl he mentioned - his wife. Ayame? He said you caused her death. Is he after revenge?"

"Ah_,_ no. She was his mistress and," Niimura raised his eyebrows. "she was a bitch. It's one of his little games. He likes to taunt me with her."

_Yakami Castle, Japan - 1580 _

_Three years after Matthew walked away, Yoshi was nineteen and had mostly given up on escape. His young life was spent studying military tactics, aristocratic etiquette, sword fighting, and the Bushido code; he was well educated and loyal to his father. _

_Many afternoons were spent just like this one, enjoying the warm sun on his back while he reviewed reports from his father's spies. Cloistered away in Mitsuhide's most recent acquisition, Yakami castle, life was - if not peaceful - at least consistent. _

_Beyond his little patio, he could see servants scurrying about fetching dainties for his father's young second wife, Ayame. Two young girls ran by, struggling to keep hold of several live chickens, and he laughed at their antics. Ayame was apparently setting up another of her lavish parties. Off in the distance, he could hear her artificial upper-class accent berating some poor servant girl. _

_The smile fell from his face, and he looked back down to his papers. _

_He knew that Ayame was growing bored with her marriage, and that she found Mitsuhide to be boorish and inattentive. His time was split between battle, court intrigue, whorehouses, and terrorizing the occupants of Yakami castle. For all her beauty, Yoshi suspected that the samurai did not visit Ayame's bedroom - her simpering naivete and flawless white skin were too much of a status symbol, and he would not risk ruining them._

_Her eyes did not need to wander far to find her husband's young apprentice. Yoshi was (as she saw it) heir to the older man's wealth, and although short and somewhat odd, he was attractive enough in his own way. He made a delightful plaything - and if there was something in his low voice that drew her, some appeal in the way he ran his hand along the hilt of his sword, some growing fascination in her heart, Yoshi was completely unaware. _

"_Yoshi, my dear?"_

_Ayame was suddenly at his side, her pale figure wrapped in riotous pink silk. She leaned over his shoulder, her voice honey-sweet as she tested out her young charms._

"_Yes, lady?"_

"_Last night as I sat in the castle gardens, I heard a voice singing such a sad song. It was quite pleasing to me, Yoshi dear. You must have heard it, my pet, when you were playing with your sword in the south garden?"_

_Yoshi clenched his teeth. _

"_I heard nothing, lady. Perhaps you could ask the master of the house?"_

_Ayame gave him a sly smile._

"_Perhaps."_

_He still sang to himself sometimes; a small comfort when he was hurting from one of his father's visits, or from the strange tricks Ayame liked to play on him. Somehow she must have heard him, because she'd spent the last two months trying to coerce him into singing for her. It was a change of pace, since it distracted her from coercing him into her bed, but the constant needling was beginning to wear thin._

_Ayame seemed to sense his irritation,and turned back to her servants - but before he could relax, she paused. _

"_Yoshi. Be in my chambers at midnight, or I will have that new stable boy flogged." _

_In a rustle of silk, she was gone, and he was left staring off into the garden. _

"Ayame wanted me. She couldn't have me, so she threw me to wolves - to Jubei. But she was alive when I left."

"If you didn't kill her, why bring her up? Why else would he chase you for this long?"

"_Ch'_," Niimura huffed, "he's pissed I left him."

MacLeod took a moment to digest this.

Drawing a long breath, Niimura continued, "We moved around all the time after Matthew found us, chasing after some rival family or other. I barely thought about him any more. We only met twice, aside from the letters. But one night... Jubei had just betrayed Oda Nobunaga, and when he came home he was..." he took another swig of his tequila and shook his head.

"The Watchers are pretty sure Nobunaga was an immortal, too," Joe filled in. "The records say he was concerned for his head just before he died, and we suspect the fire shortly after his death was caused by a quickening. Mitsuhide also took out Nobunaga's son that night, probably his student."

"But of course I had no idea. All I knew was that he was… crazy, after that battle. When he finally calmed down and left, I sent out letters, dozens of letters, with any servant I could bribe. I begged Methos to find me again."

_Azuchi Castle, Japan - 1582_

_On the night of Oda Nobunaga's defeat, Mitsuhide took possession of his enemy's home at Azuchi castle. The new household was installed in fairly grim ceremony, each member receiving their choice of rooms and spoils. Ayame was still shell-shocked from the move - she'd never stepped foot outside of her old province before, or seen a battlefield - and Yoshi was doing his best to keep out of the way, especially of his father. The samurai himself had come home crackling with energy, eyes fever-bright. _

_At the end of the long victory celebration, when he entered Yoshi's new rooms, the younger man knew it would be much worse than usual._

_He bowed low before his master, and tried not to flinch away from the hand on his shoulder._

_Three days later, when Mitsuhide finally left him, Yoshi gave in to a desperate, foolhardy bid for freedom._

_In the short window of opportunity while Mitsuhide was in Kyoto wooing the emperor, he took pen to paper, openly giving away his location, military plans, secret passwords, and anything else that would help Matthew find him. He stayed up until dawn copying and re-copying, each letter going out to some trusted or well-bribed servant. _

_With each letter he handed off, he let himself believe that it wouldn't be discovered, that it would reach its destination - and that Matthew would even remember him._


	5. A way out

Chapter 5

A steady stream of patrons was trickling in to Joe's bar, filling the bar stools, booths, and small tables near the stage - but the space around the three men remained thankfully empty.

Niimura nursed his tequila and stared off into space. His voice had drifted off some time ago, his half-drunken attention apparently wandering to the stage where Joe's band was setting up. The bar's owner didn't miss the distraction - he could pick a musician out of a crowd almost as well as he could ID immortals - but he left it alone until the history lesson was over. It was gold for the _nightingale _chronicle.

"So did he get it?" Joe's voice pulled Niimura back to the present.

"It?"

"The letter, did Methos ever get your letter?"

"Aa. Some time later, he did. But Ayame scared a copy out of a servant girl after a few days, and used it for… _eto_… blackmail. Extortion." He shrugged. "I knew the letters were stupid. I just didn't care."

_With his father gone, Yoshi knew that there was no escaping Ayame. She came to him in his room only a few days after Mitsuhide left, dressed in a bold red kimono. _

"_Still in bed, my dear?"_

_Wrapped up tight in his comforter, Yoshi tensed. All he wanted was to be left alone, but here was the jealous wife to rub salt in his wounds - he hoped not literally._

"_You'll never guess what has come into my hands." She tapped a white envelope against her lips. "A letter! And from my dear little Yoshi."_

_Ice water ran through his veins. Of course she would find him out, of course... but what would she do now? Did she even know what he'd given away in the letter, how much he had betrayed his father?_

"_Imagine my surprise when I read it, expecting a love note to some," wrinkling her nose, she spat- "commoner! Only to find you begging for help from a dirty foreigner."_

_He stayed frozen in place._

"_I know you're awake, Yoshi. And I know Mitsuhide cannot find this letter, not if you ever want to leave this room again." She stepped carefully around the bed and knelt next to his head. "So you are going to do what I ask, if you want to keep that from happening."_

"_...what do you ask, lady?"_

"_Now there's a good boy. I knew you would see things my way. Yoshi, I want you to call me by my name, Ayame," she leaned over him, "and I want you to kiss me."_

_Red silk pooled on the floor, discarded by the lovely young woman in his bed. Yoshi felt ill._

"_I don't know why you fought me for so long, my dear. We're wonderful together, don't you think?" She gazed into his eyes, searching for proof, wanting to know that she had him wrapped around her little finger. He looked away._

"_Yoshi, kiss me again."_

_Eyes lowered, Yoshi leaned down to her mouth. Then she was pulling at his hair, deepening the kiss, and he jerked away. _

_Her pretty face twisted. She'd won. Why wasn't she happy - and why was he still fighting her?_

"_Yoshi," she seethed, "why don't you do something else for me. Sing me a song - like you do in the garden. My sweet, caged little nightingale."_

_The words hung tense in the air, and Yoshi finally let himself look at the girl. Hatred burned in his eyes. _

"_Get out. Get out, you petty whore. Go tell my father, if that's what you want" - he threw the red kimono in her face - "I don't care anymore. If he locks me up, nothing will change. I just won't need to see my father's cheap harlot or hear her cheap peasant voice ever again."_

_The door slammed shut, and he grabbed a washbowl to relieve his queasy stomach. _

_For weeks Ayame said nothing to him, fuming and plotting her revenge, a woman scorned. Finally, on the night of Mitsuhide's return, she made her move. _

_They were seated for a celebration feast, Ayame stealing hateful glances across the table, Yoshi concentrating on a report from one of his father's generals. Nobunaga was dead, but with his allies on the march, their smaller army was in dire straights. Mitsuhide himself, however, was content with his present victory, and wanted to celebrate before returning to his army. He sent a messenger with orders to move the troops along to Yamazaki, and declared the subject closed._

_Ayame took her chance. _

"_Husband?" Ayame simpered at Mitsuhide, "My husband, I must tell you of the dreadful things that have gone on in this house while you were away."_

_A white envelope peeked out of her sleeve and Yoshi's heart stopped. Teary-eyed, she told him how she'd spent long years defending her virtue from his cruel son, suffering in demure silence, only to be handed evidence of this last damning betrayal on the eve of his great victory. Then, with one last wide-eyed look at Yoshi, she surrendered the letter. _

"_Yoshi has given all your secrets away to some dirty foreigner! He's betrayed you, my love!"_

_The samurai looked up from the letter, face contorted in rage. "Rōjin again! You little shit, you'll lead him right to me!"_

_Yoshi couldn't think, couldn't breathe. _

"_Get to the stables. NOW, boy. We're riding with the army to Yamazaki. He can't get through sixteen thousand men."_

_Mitsuhide pushed him out the door, and he walked numbly forward, not meeting the eyes of his father's guards. A few of them shoved him, making comments, letting their hands wander. Finally, one high ranking guard grabbed him by the arm and escorted him to the stables. _

"Eventually she gave the letter to Jubei. I'd given our position away to the foreigner. I expected anger... some kind of punishment. But I'd forgotten the fear."

"The Watchers didn't have an extensive network in Japan at the time, but from what we could piece together, a peasant fitting Methos's description was responsible for killing his teacher. He was only around forty when it happened, and must have thought his teacher was invincible."

"Then some lanky foreigner came along and chopped off his head, yeah." Niimura cracked a toothy grin at Joe. "It took me a few years, but I got Methos to tell me why Jubei was so scared. At the time, all I knew was that Jubei was angry and terrified, and wanted to put an army between himself and the foreign doctor."

_The flight from Azuchi castle went on for what seemed like hours, with Yoshi bouncing uncomfortably in the saddle in front of Mitsuhide. They shared one horse, no doubt to prevent his escape. The other horses Mitsuhide had slaughtered in their stalls._

_Yoshi wanted to scream. He was sickly aware of Mitsuhide's body pressed against his back, and the threats whispered in his ear._

_There would be no escape, not ever._

_Finally they arrived at Mitsuhide's camp in Yamazaki just before dawn, and were greeted with adoration from his followers. But it seemed that the army would not provide as much protection as Mitsuhide had hoped; storm clouds loomed on the horizon, and reports were coming in that Toyotomi Hideyoshi was gathering his army to the north. He was intent on avenging Nobunaga, and taking control of the Tanbu region. _

_Yoshi found himself smiling. He could at least hope for death, and an honorable end. _

It was too much for MacLeod to believe, and he laughed - "You're not going to tell me Methos fought through an entire army to save you. So far he's chased you all over Japan, run into heavily guarded castles - are you sure we're talking about the same immortal here?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Niimura narrowed his eyes and tilted his head drunkenly, "but why fight at all? The enemy of your enemy is your friend. Nobunaga's allies wanted revenge, and their armies were very big."

Joe cut in before MacLeod could offend the other immortal further. "If my history's right, you both died in that battle. Some rebel peasant ran Mitsuhide through, and when he revived, he ran off to holy ground and became a priest."

"That's what I've heard. The last time I saw him, before I died, we were hiding in the forest. His army lost the battle and we fled. And then, when I was without hope, Methos found us."

"_That bastard Toyotomi," his father swore, slashing at the bamboo that circled their little grove, "can't even give me two weeks to enjoy my victory! I'll have his head - whether he's one of us or not!"_

_Yoshi batted away several bamboo leaves and kept quiet. He concentrated on his little fire pit, huddling near the center of the grove and hoping to go unnoticed. With only his father and a handful of restless guards for company, he preferred to be as unnoticeable as possible. _

_Every time he heard a rustle - whether it was Mitsuhide hacking at the bamboo, or something moving around in the forest - he held his breath. Anyone who entered the grove at this point would almost certainly kill them, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that, one way or the other._

_The bamboo rustled again, and he tried to ignore it._

"_Jubei."_

_Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mitsuhide freeze._

"_Jubei, it's time to stop running." A tall westerner stepped out of the leaves, and adrenaline shot through Yoshi's veins. _

"_Rōjin."_

"_I'm not looking for your head. This has nothing to do with the past. Just let the boy go."_

"_You have no right-!"_

"_No, I don't," the foreigner smiled, and turned to Yoshi, "but that doesn't mean much in the long run, now does it? Nightingale, will you come with me?"_

"_I-"_

"_Don't forget yourself, Yoshi, or what I have taught you. 'In matters both great and small, one should not turn his back on his master's commands. No matter how unreasonably the master may treat a man, he should not feel disgruntled.'"_

"_I-" _

_Yoshi took a step forward, towards what could only be a mirage. Matthew seemed set apart from the battle, untouched by the blood and sulfur that had burned his eyes back in the village. _

"So Methos showed up out of nowhere and took Mitsuhide out? Why not take his head?"

"That's not exactly how it happened. Things got... messy. Methos was shot, and I- I did the only thing that an honorable man could do, in that circumstance."

_The bright splotch of red spreading on the doctor's chest didn't even register, not until Matthew hit the ground. A bullet. One little scrap of metal, and it was over for certain this time. The battle was lost, his friend was lost, and he was standing unhurt and unrescued next to Mitsuhide. _

_It was too much. Yoshi fell to his knees - maybe he screamed. He could not kill Mitsuhide. He could not wait for Toyotomi's men to arrive and kill them both. _

"_You're mine, boy. You'll always be mine." _

_He could not live like this._

"_I-" he met Mitsuhide's eyes, "I will not betray you. I've lost the battle, but I will die with honor."_

_Too late, Mitsuhide realized that the boy had picked up a katana. He lodged the hilt in the dirt and threw himself forward, sliding the blade right through his heart, and died. _


	6. In which there is singing

Chapter 6

"Your first death was suicide?"

"Yes. When I woke up, Jubei was dead, I was alive, and Matthew... _Methos _was smiling." Niimura closed his eyes, letting himself feel the alcohol. "He ran Jubei through with a piece of bamboo. We escaped from the city before Jubei's guards could get to us. Never looked back."

Niimura let out a huge sigh and sat back in his seat. "And that's it. I didn't see Jubei for another_..._ hundred years, maybe."

"Why start chasing you again, after all that time? And why is he still alive? Even Methos must have realized the danger after he started hunting you! It doesn't make any sense." MacLeod asked. There was a shadow behind the other immortal's eyes, something he was purposely leaving out.

Niimura shrugged the questions off, turning away from the bar. "I've been on the run for a week now, and I've been talking about him all day. I'm tired. I'm done. I need a distraction. What's going on over there - you got a band?"

Joe let him change the subject, throwing a glare over the shorter man's head at MacLeod. The Scot looked like he was about to press the issue, but finally gave in.

"Just the house band. Drums, guitar, keyboard - nothing special - but they can play some mean jazz. I'm not so bad myself on the guitar."

"No vocals?"

"Ah, well, I do some singing when I get the chance. But one of my bartenders took the day off, so it looks like I'll be busy tonight." Joe smiled - he had a good idea of where this was going. "Say, you wouldn't want to..."

"You read my file, Watcher. You know I do." Niimura rolled his eyes, and dropped his bottle on the bar with a clunk.

"But-!"

"MacLeod, let it go. The man just gave you his entire life story, I think that's enough for now." Niimura was already tottering away towards the small stage, disappearing in a sea of Parisians. "And if you haven't noticed, he looks like hell. Relax."

MacLeod gave him a sullen look, but nodded. "Fine. I'll see if I can reach Methos, make sure he hasn't run into trouble. Don't let him out of your sight."

Whether his concern was for Niimura's protection, or to keep him from running away, even MacLeod wasn't sure.

The bar crowd of noisy weekend patrons continued to grow, so he ducked past the bar area into the little entryway to dial Adam Pierson's number. Methos answered on the first ring.

"Hi Ada-"

"Is he alright?"

"Yes, we're both fine, thanks for asking." MacLeod rolled his eyes. "We had a little run-in with the samurai, but we got away clean. Mostly."

"I'd heard. Listen, I just got through customs. Where can we meet?"

"We're at Joe's already. Actually, your friend's taken quite a liking to Joe, and the bar." Sure enough, he could see Niimura up on stage adjusting the mic stand to his height. Behind him, Joe was chatting with the band - probably smoothing out some ruffled tail feathers and explaining what the strange little man was doing on stage.

"Do you want me to get him on the phone?"

"Don't bother, I'll be there in ten minutes. Just keep an eye on him."

Duncan disconnected without another word. He made his way back to the bar just as Joe was returning to his seat, the drummer behind him setting up a steady beat.

"You're not playing, Joe?"

"Nah." He settled onto a stool next to MacLeod. "I actually do need to man the bar. Mike's out on Watcher business. Besides, it's not every day I get to see a Watcher legend do their thing - present company excluded, of course."

MacLeod rolled his eyes. "Of course. And don't forget the old man."

"Who could ever forget the old man." Joe laughed, and nodded at the stage. "He seems pretty comfortable up there. I'd bet he's played some pretty big venues before... the kid's got presence."

"Funny. But he's not exactly a kid, Joe."

"Yeah, yeah. Call me when one of your lot starts goin' grey." Joe made his way to the business end of the bar, listening as the band started up.

Niimura's voice was soft and smoky, and just a bit off-key - a bundle of contradictions, just like the rest of him. A few regulars turned their heads to see what was going on.

"He's... good," MacLeod had to admit, "and not what I was expecting."

"Yeah. He's got some pipes on him." Joe leaned back in his chair, watching the immortal sway in front of the mic. "Japanese, right? What's he saying?"

Translating offhand for Joe, MacLeod let himself size up the other immortal again. His legs were short for the rest of his body, but his back was broad and sturdy, arms strong enough to handle a sword - although nothing as big as the MacLeod broadsword. The small stage lights lit up his face like a twisted geisha.

He'd tossed his windbreaker aside at some point, revealing tattoos that trailed from the tops of his hands all the way under his sleeves - and up to his neck, where an ugly design took up most of the space under his left ear. His t-shirt rode up, showing off the band of his boxers and a sliver of pale skin along his hip; he was tattooed there, too. How long did it take, MacLeod wondered, for a tattoo to fade? Or did an immortal simply cut the skin off?

"I wonder what he- uh- do we have a visitor?"

Duncan stood up as a presence washed over him. On stage, the other immortal was staring wide-eyed, clutching the microphone.

"It should be Methos. He said he'd be meeting us here soon..."

Sure enough, the door swung open and Methos swept into the room. His face was pinched and pale, and he made a beeline for the highlander. Joe moved to pour the ancient a beer, but Methos held up a hand.

"Where is he? Is he alright?"

"I told you, he's fine." MacLeod gave his friend a patronizing smile. "I'm sure you don't mind having a boy scout around now, do you?"

"I guess it has its uses, highlander. Thank you - for being here. Now I just need to collect Tooru, and we'll be out of your hair."

"Not so fast - what about the samurai? You have to do something about him, he's-"

On stage, the band launched into another song. Methos' eyes snapped to the stage, and MacLeod was utterly forgotten. He moved away, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"What aren't you telling me, Methos?"

Niimura hit a soft keening note, and Methos twitched. His brows furrowed. "Nothing, MacLeod. This isn't some conspiracy, I just want to make sure he's safe-"

"Then why haven't you killed the samurai? He's good, but I know you're better."

"I can't."

"You mean you won't. After everything you said about Ingrid, and Kristin-"

"They were different!" Methos jerked his arm from the highlander's grip. Several confused emotions twisted across his face, as he stared the other man down.

Duncan refused to flinch.

"The way I see it, it's not that different at all."

"It's complicated."

"More complicated than Ingrid and Kristin?"

"Yes!" Methos huffed. "I didn't come all this way to argue with you, highlander. Just... let it go. Please."

For a moment, MacLeod feel every inch the teenager. He was throwing a tantrum, demanding answers, when the older man had flown halfway around the world to protect his friend. Feeling the cold space between them, this man he still considered a close friend, he gave in. Methos brushed past him and into the crowd.

Resigned to watch, Duncan wondered how the two would greet each other. Would Methos offer a warm hand shake, like he did for Byron? Would Niimura greet his protector with the same cool regard he'd shown MacLeod? Somehow none of it seemed right - he couldn't picture the two of them interacting at all.

Niimura had taken notice of Methos, that was certain. Dark eyes tracked the other immortal towards the stage. MacLeod glanced back to his old friend. Methos had the strangest look on his face... almost…

Niimura leaned on the microphone stand, still singing: "_watashi wa kowareru anata wo nakushi ai shiteru_"

Hot surprise flushed his skin, rearranging the day's events into an entirely new picture. How could he have missed it? Hunting a hostile immortal across Japan, getting caught up in Watcher mythology, running halfway across the globe to be a night in less-than-shining armor... the look in his eyes when he turned towards the stage. Niimura wasn't just an old friend.

They had been lovers.

Somewhat dazed, he wandered back to his bar stool and Joe.

His Watcher let him sit for a few seconds, politely ignoring his little altercation with Methos. No doubt he would pry the full story out of them later.

"So, ah... what's he saying up there? Looks like it's got all three of you upset."

"I love you."

"Huh?"

MacLeod took a deep breath. "He said 'I love you,' Joe. 'I am breaking losing you, I love you.' They were lovers. They must have been."

"Oh."

Joe didn't respond, but his silence said enough; MacLeod whipped his head around to stare at his friend. "You knew?!"

"Well... yeah. I mean, the _nightingale _is practically the Watcher version of Romeo and Juliet. They were together for almost two hundred years after his first death, and every few decades after that. The relationship is, ahem, pretty well documented. Not something I expected from the old man, that's for sure." He cleared his throat again nervously. "You're, ah, you're not going to have a problem with this, are you?"

MacLeod raised his eyebrows. "No! No. I guess I just wasn't expecting it either."

He wasn't sure what to make of this whole situation now. He'd spent the whole day with the other immortal - he'd taken the man out for dinner, for god's sake! He'd had his own fair share of really _really_ good male friends. But _Methos?_ He'd never really thought about it, but the man must have had lovers. Five thousand years, after all... Was this how his friends felt whenever one of his old flames popped up out of the blue?

A spatter of applause brought his attention back to the stage, where Niimura was thanking the audience in pidgin French.

The old immortal was at the side of the stage now, waiting for his friend - student? lover? - to join him. It was strange seeing them side by side, after what he'd heard from Niimura.

Joe cleared his throat. "I've seen that look on him before, you know."

"What?"

"Methos. I've seen him look at someone that way before."

Sure enough, that strange look was back - an expression he couldn't remember ever seeing on him before tonight. MacLeod was surprised to find that it suited the old man.

"Who was it? Kronos didn't seem like the type to be mooned over, not if you wanted to keep your eyes. Maybe Byron, on a good day-"

"Don't you remember Alexa? He was head over heels for her."

MacLeod thought back to the slim young woman, but all he could remember was the faint desperation when they'd set out, and then the subdued grief when he'd returned alone. Methos had been painfully aware of her mortality.

Now, walking towards them with his arm draped over Niimura's shoulders, he looked almost giddy.

"It's like he wraps up his whole world in one person. The look on his face after I told him she was dying... oh boy. Mac, if you're not okay with this I can-"

"No, it's fine, Joe. Just... grab me another beer, would you?"


	7. Reunited

Chapter 7

Methos and Niimura (MacLeod could barely wrap his mind around thinking 'Methos and anybody') were thankfully not as sappy as their Watcher legend might suggest. At least, if you ignored the sideways glances, and the way Methos's arms rested casually along the back of the shorter man's chair.

And how Methos's nose scrunched up when he laughed.

Not to mention the huge grin that Niimura couldn't seem to keep off his face. His teeth really were awful, the incisors almost completely hidden behind his front teeth, and the canines sticking out over top. MacLeod wondered idly if that could be fixed on an immortal, or if his teeth would just heal back crooked again. Then he worried that he might be staring.

"Wouldn't you say, highlander?"

"Mac?" Joe prodded his knee with his 'd been discussing tours and fans and other arcane topics of the music industry for the past hour, and the Scot's thoughts had understandably drifted.

"Hmm?"

"You're staring at your beer. You do realize you're supposed to drink it, not watch it?"

"Give him some time. He, ah, didn't know about you and the kid."

"Me and- oh. Ooooohh. _Really? _Didn't you tell him anything, nightingale?"

"Hell, he could write my biography by now. He-"

"That's not it." MacLeod made himself meet the old man's eyes. "I don't care if you're friends, or... lovers, or...whatever. I'm just a little concerned, because everyone seems to have forgotten about the guy who tried to kill us today."

Sensing a repeat of their earlier spat, Joe picked up a few empty bottles and shifted unobtrusively to the bar - out of the way, but still close enough to be nosey.

"Not a problem anymore," Niimura answered. "Jubei will leave me alone, and I'll start a new life somewhere else, like I always have."

He smiled, but Methos looked away.

"What about next time - what if Methos can't come for you? Then what?"

"Jubei doesn't want my head. He doesn't want anything he hasn't had a hundred times already. Methos finds me, and I recover. It's fine."

"It's not-"

"Yes, it is. Eventually some headhunter will take him out; he's not _that_ good. Until then, we run."

Duncan pressed his lips together; there was no use arguing with a stubborn immortal. What he couldn't believe was Methos - pushy, cranky, all-knowing Methos - sitting back and leaving his friend in danger like this.

It wasn't like Methos was all that gung-ho about fighting, he had to admit. When they'd first met, Methos had done everything he could to keep him from fighting Kalas. But back then, Methos hadn't thought either of them could take Kalas, and that wasn't a problem here. From his brief encounter with the samurai, MacLeod was certain that he was more than a match - and so was Methos. The biggest threat was not Jubei's skill with a blade, but the mortals he used to even the playing field - if there was ever a time to attack, it was now, with at least five of his body guards dead, and friends to help fight off the rest.

No, this situation was much more like Kristin. The samurai was a danger to Methos and the younger immortal, just like Kristin had been with MacLeod and Richie. MacLeod had been wrong then, letting Kristin live; now Methos was caught up in the same trap. All he had to do was figure out why the stubborn bastard wouldn't take his own advice.

"Highlander? I said we're heading out. I managed to book a room on the way over, so we'll be out of your hair for the night. Then it's off to Spain, Greece, Romania, who knows? I'll send a postcard."

His thoughts drifted back to the conversation. "No. Stay on the barge, it will be safer."

"Mac-"

"I'll even take the couch. We should stay together, at least until we know the samurai-"

"Ah-ah-ah," the short immortal held up a finger, "no. Thanks for your help, but I haven't seen Methos in thirty years. I'm sure you understand - we're going to a hotel."

Then, giving MacLeod his toothy smile, Niimura went off to look for his rucksack.

He felt like an idiot. Lovers. They were lovers. Lovers... do things... in hotel rooms. He couldn't even think about Methos doing things in hotel rooms, not with the man still standing right in front of him.

"Well, that was awkward. You'd think he'd develop a filter after five centuries, but no." Methos sighed. "Look, MacLeod, I can't thank you enough for protecting him. And for not freaking out too much. I know I'm hard on you for being a boy scout, but you're a good friend, Mac. Thank you."

It was a farewell speech, Duncan was certain.

"Methos- wait. Just... just tell me why you won't kill him. Give me that much."

After a second's hesitation, Methos set his jaw and gave in.

"It's Tooru. He won't let me."

"He's still loyal-"

"You don't _understand_." Methos's mouth twisted. "I can't imagine Tooru told you the whole story, but surely you can guess how he was raised, highlander. And what happens when Jubei manages to catch him."

MacLeod paused. Why wouldn't Methos want revenge on someone who had - his brows furrowed - what exactly had the samurai done, anyway? What had the immortal glossed over?

"The samurai said some things in the alley, before we fought..."

"What that man has done to him... MacLeod. Duncan. Would you want those memories trapped in your head forever? Memories of someone you've known for hundreds of years, someone you love" - the word was raw, coming from the world's oldest man - "memories of them tortured, abused, and raped? Memories belonging to the man who did it, who _enjoyed _it- I just-"

Methos looked away, his features tight and twisted. After a few breaths, he continued.

"I already have those memories, highlander. Three thousand years, and they still wake me up some nights. Do they need to wear Tooru's face, too? And believe me, they would… some things just don't fade after the quickening, not when it's this personal. But I would, for him, if he asked. If he'd just _let_ me. I want that man dead _badly_, highlander. Don't ever question that."

Edo, Japan - 1792

"_Please, nightingale. Please let me do it."_

_Blood, sliding across the tatami floor, pooling in pretty little puddles. Filling him with hate, light-headed ecstasy, a lust for more blood and pain and death to those who would touch what is MINE... he held his sword high, ready for the final blow._

"_Please, nightingale."_

_But the boy shook his head. How could he not want revenge, chained up and tortured, for how long? How many years? _

"_You can't stop me!" He raised his blade - a heavy Russian specimen - and breathed the scent of blood. "Not this time. It ends now."_

"_Matthew, don't do this. Come undo my chains and we can run away. Just like last time. Haven't you ever wanted to visit Africa?"_

_The chains! Rusty, bloody chains, and manacles welded onto narrow wrists. He'd seen chains like that on his own wrists, remembered putting them there, had memories of things far worse-_

"_Six months! He's had you for six months, and when I heard - when it reached me - this has to end now. He won't touch you again."_

"_Matthew. Methos! Please don't."_

"_I tried so hard, nightingale. Do you know how hard it is for foreigners to come into Edo now? I just want him dead, so you can be safe. That's all. Please." _

"_You know it's not that simple. You know what his quickening will do to you, how much his memories will hurt you. You told me yourself - I would keep his memories if I killed him, and that means you would too. And that is worse than anything he could do to me."_

_Already, the sword was slipping from Methos's hands, bloodlust curdling into a sick knot in his stomach. It was all his fault - his fault the samurai was still alive, his fault that his little nightingale wouldn't kill the man and save himself. His fault. His weakness._

"_You said it was my choice. He isn't in control, because it's my choice. You know what my choice is."_

_The sword's tip grazed the floor. _

"_I love you, Methos. Please don't do this to yourself."_

They were both quiet for a very long time.

"I think... I think I understand."

He took a long, hard look at his old friend, who had been there for him all these years. His very old, very cunning friend, who had conveniently brought this whole complicated arrangement right to MacLeod's doorstep.

"But you know there's another way to end this, Methos."

Whatever was floating around in the samurai's head, it would mean very little to MacLeod. He'd known Niimura for less than a day, and even the things Methos had hinted at... it would all fade, just as surely as Caspian's little freakshow - even the dark quickening was just a sort of vague smudge by now.

He could kill the samurai.

"I want to tell you it's not your fight, highlander. But this time... I don't care."

Methos looked at Duncan for a moment more, then turned to gather up the short immortal. Niimura's arm wrapped loosely around his waist.

He ran a palm over his face and sighed. Life was always interesting when Methos came to town.


	8. MacLeod gets another phone call

Chapter 8

His cell phone was ringing. Why was his cell phone ringing? It was never a good sign when he got a call at - MacLeod lifted his head to see the clock - four in the morning? The memory of yesterday's events hit him, and he flopped back down with a groan.

Why did all his problems come by phone these days?

Dragging himself out of bed, he picked up the phone and ground out the closest thing to "MacLeod" he could manage.

The voice that answered wasn't Methos, or Niimura, or Joe, or even Amanda. Instead, it was Joe's assistant bartender, a fellow Watcher, who stammered his way through an introduction.

"Mr. MacLeod, it's Mike. From Joe's Bar. I'm Joe's, uh, assistant. I wouldn't be calling you, you shouldn't even know who I am, but I had to - everything's gone wrong. There's not much else we can do. It's… it's about immortals. The samurai - I mean, Jubei, he found us. I don't know how long we can wait for the, uh, the Council to take action-"

"Mike, calm down. What happened? Are you in trouble?"

"No, not me, I'm not. But Joe's been samurai's got ten Watchers tied up in his warehouse - he raided our temporary base. You see, several higher-ups were called in to observe the event - I mean, uh, these two immortals have a history together, and when they interact-"

MacLeod closed his eyes, cursing under his breath. "I know about the nightingale legend, Mike. Just tell me what happened."

"It went down an hour ago. The samurai's guards must have noticed our surveillance detail posted outside the Hilton - sloppy work, it should never have happened - and followed them back to base. They broke in through a window and started waving guns around, demanding to know who we were, and why we were following their master. It was terrifying. Some of us got out, but several were trapped inside... including Joe. There are six of us left. The rest were carted over to some empty warehouse by the docks, from what we can tell. We're, uh, we're doing what we have to in order to recover them alive..."

"And that includes calling up immortals for help."

"No! Yes. Just you. Because of your... unusual relationship with the Watchers. Adam figured you would be involved one way or the other, so you might as well be on our side."

"Adam? Adam Pierson?" MacLeod raised his eyebrows. That was one less phone call he'd have to make, at least.

"Yeah. He's sort of taken over the operation, actually. They were, uh, he was at the hotel when Jubei's people showed up. I guess he feels guilty for what happened at the hotel... not that he could have done anything for Niimura. It's a real shame, the whole business."

"Wait - what happened at the hotel? Where is Niimura?" If the man was dead... but no, Methos would not let that happen. Would he?

"He's gone. That's why they were at the hotel in the first place. They must have broken in and knocked Adam unconscious," or killed him, MacLeod grimaced, "and taken Niimura. We think some kind of knockout gas was involved, although there's no history of the samurai using that sort of thing."

MacLeod cursed again, this time in straight Gaelic. Methos was probably spitting mad by now.

"Alright. Tell me where you are. I want to talk to Pierson myself."

The address Mike provided brought the highlander to a shady strip mall a few streets down from the docks. Methos was waiting for him, cast in blue light from a neon sign, and leaning against the hood of his Range Rover. Mike stood behind him, shifting nervously, and two bulky ex-military types hovered on the other side of the car.

Methos ducked his head, looking up at the other immortal through long eyelashes. What-?

"Adam Pierson. We met briefly, through Joe? Glad you could make it." Methos held out his hand with a look of utter sincerity on his face. His eyes told MacLeod to shut up and play along. "On behalf of our organization, I've been asked to thank you for your help in this matter. Oh - and you're surrounded by Watchers right now, so consider yourself on record."

In addition to his three companions, there was severely dressed woman staring at them from a phone booth by the street, and a Buick idling in front of a 24-hour coffee shop two doors down. The tension among the Watchers was almost physical, an odd combination of fear, fascination, and irritation.

"Thanks for the warning," he deadpanned. "I'll try not to give away any ancient immortal mysteries."

The ancient hunched into his his oversized trench coat.

"I, uh," - was that a blush? Could Methos fake a blush? - "I shouldn't be involved in this, I'm a researcher, you see, but I was with Tooru when he was taken. If I had known… I just met him, and I didn't know he was, you know. One of you."

Methos looked abashed, and Duncan was pretty sure he could see the phone booth woman roll her eyes.

He cleared his throat. "But I worked briefly on their chronicles before being moved to the Methos project, so I know more than most about Niimura and the samurai. Besides, we need as many agents on the ground as possible, if we're going to resolve this before anything unfortunate happens."

MacLeod had never seen his friend so insistently _Adam_ before. The man had been caught associating with an immortal, and was clearly trying to do damage control.

"I don't know. If you know that much about Niimura, what were you doing shacked up with him at the Hilton?"

"I didn't recognize him! I've only ever seen pictures, and no one told me he was even in town! He didn't have a sword, for god's sake! Besides, his hair hasn't been black since modern hair dye was invented How was I supposed to know?"

"There you are, shy little Watcher, probably never been out in the field to play voyeur," and he never would, if he wanted to keep his cover, "when one of your Watcher legends shows up out of the blue and throws you a smile. He's no 5000 year old man, but hey-"

"MacLeod!" The word had little less Adam behind it, and a lot more angry Methos. "This isn't a game. Joe is in real trouble here. We need to get the Watchers out of there."

His smile dropped. "And if I don't want to fight the samurai for you? I won't be an assassin for the Watchers."

"That's not what's going on here, and you know it."

After a long moment, he conceded. "Fine," he nodded. "I'll go. For Joe."

"Well. Alright then." Methos bobbed his head. "Time is of the essence. Shall we head out? You'll be going mostly as a distraction. Mike and the others will take my car, find a back entrance to sneak our people out. Alright?"

Methos, he noticed, had conveniently left himself out of the plan, which could only mean he was going to do something not very Adam-like at all… like confronting an immortal samurai with a very un-Adam-like broadsword.

Once inside the T-Bird and away from his fellow Watchers, Methos dropped the Adam act and punched the other immortal's arm.

"You are an _asshole_."

"Sorry," he said. He wasn't.

They pulled out ahead of the Watchers' car, Methos directed him onto a main road.

"Look, this is a lot worse than they realize. I want to get out of this without anyone dying, but it's not looking good. If Jubei wasn't enough, Dennis Hooper - the fucking Watcher _fool_ - reported the whole thing to TCARD."

"Tee-card?"

"Tactical Containment and Asset Recovery Division."

"Sounds menacing."

"It should. Once they get involved, there are no survivors. They're about as tactical as napalm. We have an hour before they show up, at best."

Methos paused and glanced over to his friend. "I didn't expect Joe to get involved in this. I shouldn't have forgotten how dangerous Jubei is. He gassed us in the hotel… not his usual MO. He's adapting, or getting desperate - I'm not sure which."

There was a long silence, broken by a few clicks and snaps. MacLeod glanced over to see his friend apparently taking inventory - counting his knives and ammo, adjusting the holster of a very large gun, and checking the fastenings on a slim Kevlar vest. His face was hard and pale like stone. MacLeod looked away again. The man had gone through several wild personality changes this weekend, and MacLeod didn't want to think about which one had packed the razor wire.

He was starting to feel a little bad about his teasing earlier - but only a little.

"So what's the good news?"

"The good news? Well, Jubei is still here, so I might still be able to get Tooru out of this today. If he hadn't noticed the Watchers, he'd be holed up god-knows-where by now. Not exactly good news for Joe, though, now is it?" Methos smiled grimly. "It's up ahead - turn here."

The T-Bird turned sharply, pulling into a small, hidden side street. Methos's Range Rover blew past them, with Joe's assistant at the wheel.

"Mike is circling around. He's going to wait about fifteen minutes, while you engage Jubei, then he'll charge in and rescue Joe and the others."

"And what's really going to happen?"

"Oh, the same thing, more or less. I'll be the one keeping Jubei busy. Your priority here is Joe - I want you making sure he gets out of this alive. I'm not trusting his life to a bunch of desk-bound Watchers. You'll sneak in and get rid of whatever guards he's got set up. Pull in here, we'll walk the rest of the way."

MacLeod turned in to the small parking lot, cringing a little as he did. There was no way the classic car would survive the night in this area. He looked over at Methos.

"Alright."

"Alright? Really, that's it? No great Clan Leader speech, no running to rescue fair damsel?"

"Hey - shorty's your damsel, not mine. I'll stick with Joe." MacLeod conceded, pushing aside the uneasy feeling in his chest. The old immortal was ready to fight Jubei, but something told him that taking the samurai's head was still not on the agenda. "Besides, you wouldn't be able to keep Joe safe without blowing your cover - Adam."

"Yes, there is that."

"Ready? We don't have long before your Watcher friends circle back and see you waving a sword around."

"Let's go, then."

They'd need to go the last few yards to the building in silence, but MacLeod paused to regard the other immortal.

"Methos. I'll get Joe out of this, but if I can... I'll come back for you. For Jubei."

Methos only shrugged.


	9. The devil's den and a new friend

Chapter 9

The two immortals chose a vantage point just at the side of the warehouse, behind a crumpled industrial AC unit that was slowly being reclaimed by the local flora. It was still hours until dawn, and with only one dim lamp lighting the front entrance of the building, the rest of the lot was hidden in inky darkness. MacLeod quickly located a broken window at the side of the building as his best entry point.

The two-story red brick construction was considerably older than the nearby buildings. Part of it must have been converted into office space at one time, adding signage and cheap plastic blinds to many of the windows. A glass door was grafted on to an old docking bay, serving as the main street entrance. MacLeod crept out in the opposite direction, keeping his back against the side of the building.

Methos elected to walk straight up to the glass door, grumbling to himself about damsels, boy scouts, and not-that-short-you-overgrown-Scot.

Finding it locked, the lanky immortal stared at it for a moment, then raised one fist to bang on the glass. He shouted a bit for good measure. MacLeod had to resist the urge to bang his head against the brick in exasperation, before he rounded the corner of the building and lost sight of the older immortal. Then it was a quick hop onto the window sill, careful of the broken glass, and he was in.

He found himself in a narrow hallway with dirty white-washed walls and thinning carpet. An upturned table, dented file cabinet, moldering cubicle dividers, and other bits of old office furniture still lined the walls. Papers, tangled wires, and other waste had accumulated in the corners and around the larger debris. The hall was nearly as dark as outside, but as he padded silently forward, he could see beams of lights coming from the intersection of another hallway. Flashlights. Several of Jubei's guards were heading his way, sent to investigate the man pounding on their front door. The muffled French gave them away as Parisians - the samurai must have hired local thugs. MacLeod felt his focus narrow, like it always did just before a fight, and flattened himself against the wall to wait.

"I'm telling you, Michel, we're in over our heads. This guy is crazy. He shows up on the street, gives us money, promises more. Just one little kidnapping, he says, harmless! Now who are all these people? And he's disappeared, holed up in one of the rooms, with those crazy ninja guys running the show. Did you know they walk around carrying swords?"

"You always worry too much. One or twenty, who cares? As long as he pays. A quarter of a million francs, Renee, can you imagine? Who gives a shit about crazy men with swords, if he pays that well!"

"That's another thing - he pays well, a little too well, if you understand me…"

Three men passed by, dressed in scruffy street clothes, and the highlander pounced. The first went down without a fight, knocked out by a sleeper hold before he could turn around. MacLeod threw the limp body at a second guard, blocking his knife, and knocked the third down with a quick right cross. Before the second guard could recover, MacLeod knocked the knife away and twisted his arm behind his back.

A few minutes later, MacLeod had all three tied up and gagged with strips of their own clothes, and was looking for an inconspicuous hiding place. He jiggled a few door knobs until he found one unlocked - it was, to his dismay, already occupied. An older man with sandy brown hair was crumpled against one wall of the empty closet, dead, Watcher tattoo clearly visible on his bare wrist. For a moment he thought Joe - but no, the eyes were brown, the face too thin and nose quite sharp. He threw the unconscious guards in with a curse, slammed the door shut, and propped a chair against the knob. That was one mortal dead because of Jubei; more, if he counted the mortal guards in the alley behind Maurice's.

The hall quickly broke off into a wide empty room, filled with dirt, cobwebs, and a few more cubicle dividers.

He found the missing Watchers corralled in a conference room at the far end. The double doors were held shut with rusty chains and an old crowbar - by the look of the handles, the Watchers had tried and failed to bust through the crude barricade. MacLeod could see several figures through the safety-glass wall.

He moved towards the door.

"Hey! Hey, stop!"

Ayoung man – early thirties, Duncan guessed absently – thumped his palm against the glass.

"My name is Duncan MacLeod. I'm here to-"

"Shh shh, quietly. And stay back. Yes, you're here to save us. I'm sure we've all read your file." Even muffled by the glass, the young man's accent was vaguely Irish - and how was it that some people could paint 'you're an idiot, MacLeod' into their every word? "But maybe you want to disable the alarms first?"

Oh.

The man tilted his head towards the door. Sure enough, three small cameras blinked back at him, attached to the door with duct tape. They were pointed at the opposite walls, away from the Watchers, with a round speaker taped up above them.

"He stole the surveillance equipment from our van, at least the stuff that we hadn't already-" another Watcher hissed a warning. MacLeod snorted. As if the Watchers hadn't already been caught red-handed. "Yes, well. Movement sets them off. See the red button on the side? That's the off switch."

"How do I-"

"They're fairly low quality, since we only used them to - well, never mind that. Just move slowly and stay close to the wall, close as you can. Try to stay in the shadows. There you are."

MacLeod flattened himself against the wall and began inching his way towards the conference room door. As he moved, the young man continued to talk through the glass.

"There's four of us in here. One left behind, uh, unfortunately deceased. They took four others to another room for questioning."

Almost there, almost there. Slowly. "Adam said ten. What happened to the last guy?"

"You know Adam? He's alright?"

"Adam Pierson is… an old acquaintance. He's fine. Where is your last guy?"

More hissing from the other Watchers, and the Irishman rolled his eyes. "They pulled half of us out for questioning," he tapped a particularly scuffed section of safety-glass, "they were 'creating a disturbance.' Sam Kitridge managed to wander off in the confusion. These idiots think he's going to save them, but I'm pretty sure he got caught playing James Bond behind a fern or something. The man has failed every field test we have, and some we don't. You're almost there, try not to jostle the door."

The device was in reach now, and MacLeod reached up and turned the speaker off, followed by each of the three cameras.

"Finally! You can open the doors now, but-" he ran a hand through wavy hair, watching MacLeod unbar the door, "what about the others? We can't leave without them."

Duncan glanced up from the chains. "I'll take care of the others – was Joe Dawson with them?"

"Yeah. Dawson, another senior agent named Keith Mendel, and two field agents – Heddie and Fieri. And probably Kitridge," he added. "They're in a room with the samurai and his three remaining students."

MacLeod finally dropped the chain and pulled open the door, but the young Watcher stayed just inside the doorway.

"If you're going after them, I'm coming with you."

"Not going to happen. You're going to take my gun," Methos had pressed the handgun into his hands after they left the car, ignoring his protests, "and find an exit. These people need someone level headed to get them out of here."

Without the glass wall between them, the young man's eyes were unnaturally blue. His jaw was square and set in a stubborn line.

"They would need a small army to get out of here. It'd be safer to leave them here, until you kill the samurai. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"

There were a few startled protests behind him, but he waved them away.

"I'm not leaving anyone behind. If I don't go with you, I go by myself. I know where the samurai took them.

As if on cue, gunfire echoed down the hall. MacLeod pushed the mortal back into the room, but soon enough Mike's voice called an all clear. The cavalry had arrived. "Here's your small army. Dawson's assistant is on his way in, with a few more of your guys and a lot of guns. He can get you out. Go."

The young man countered with a haughty look. "Mike can get everyone out, and I'll come with you. I'll take that gun anyway, though, thanks for that."

The sound of heavy footsteps had MacLeod ducking back behind the safety-glass, glaring at the Watcher, until Mike's crew rounded the corner.

The tension between the Watcher and immortal broke, and suddenly the rest of the captives were milling about anxiously, waiting to get through the door and follow their comrades to freedom. Mike wasn't exactly the image of an action hero, breathing hard and sweating through his button-up shirt, but he did have several guns on his person and a few ex-Marines behind him. Even the woman from the phone booth had a sort of Tomb Raider look to her.

"MacLeod! Where's-"

"I ran across them before I could get to Jubei." He nudged the stubborn young Watcher away from the doorway, allowing the captives to funnel out of the conference room. "It looks like he's got five of your guys with him. Get the rest to safety. I'll take care of Jubei and the others."

"Got it. Good luck - we'll come back for the others if we can. Move out, everyone. Let's not give them time to regroup." With a final nod to MacLeod, Mike turned to herd the bedraggled Watchers out like so many drunken bar patrons.

Not surprisingly, one in particular stayed behind.

"Not. Going. To leave. We might as well work together. I can get you to the samurai."

MacLeod opened his mouth to protest, but they were running on borrowed time, and Jubei could kill Joe – or someone else – any minute now.

"Fine. Lead the way."

"Fantastic." With a pointed smile, the man turned on his heel and set off back the way MacLeod had come. He called back over his shoulder, "name's Merv, by the way."


	10. Bumps and bruises

Chapter 10

MacLeod caught up to the young Watcher and, after a few twists and turns through the building, finally broke the silence.

"Merv."

"That's my name."

"How exactly do you know where the others are being held?"

He gave MacLeod a smug look.

"The Watchers aren't fools - at least not all of us. My partner was one of the guys taken away for making trouble. We managed to grab some of our equipment - radio communication - when they had us stuffed in our own van like sardines." He tapped his right ear, where MacLeod could just make out a small beige transmitter. "It's one-way. I can hear him, but he can't hear me."

A beam of light down the hallway forced them into an alcove, with Merv perched awkwardly against a busted water fountain. MacLeod was pretty sure his pony tail had swept up a few cobwebs from his own position. The patrol passed by, and they were moving again.

"For all Heddie knows, he's just talking to himself. But he managed to whisper directions to me, and get a good head count on what we're up against. At least thirteen on patrol, three of those AWOL-" he raised his eyebrows at MacLeod, and the immortal confirmed he'd taken care of the three- "and no sign of the samurai himself, or the three mortal students he has left."

"What's your partner saying now?"

"Nothing." Merv stopped short at an intersection in the hallway. "The line went silent before you showed up. This should be it - third door on the left."

They moved quietly into position, Merv's back to the wall and gun ready, MacLeod poised to kick the door in. He started a silent count: one… two... three...

WHAM!

The pressboard door flew inwards. Shots rang out and Murphy returned fire, dropping two men before Duncan could reach them.

Three of the missing Watchers were in the middle of the room, bound, gagged, wide-eyed, and covered in blood splatter. There was no sign of Jubei.

Merv made a beeline for the supply closet door, kicking one of the dead guards hard in the chest on the way.

He rattled the door and found it locked tight, with a large padlock looped around the handle.

Leaving the Irishman to investigate, MacLeod pulled a pocket knife and freed the three Watchers. The young woman had mascara tears streaked down her face, but she sat calmly as MacLeod cut the zip ties and pulled the duct tape from her mouth. She identified herself as Jen Fieri, and the older gentleman was Keith Mendel. The third was Sam Kitridge, who had indeed been captured shortly after his escape (although whether he'd been hiding behind a fern or not, she didn't say). He was a middle-aged man with all the bad attributes of a used car salesman, and he wiggled around enough to nick himself on MacLeod's knife.

Once loose, the man sputtered and demanded medical attention for his arm and assorted other injuries, cursed immortals and their recklessness, and made a few unimaginative racial slurs. MacLeod was sorely tempted to put the duct tape back, but a stern glare from Fieri settled the man down.

"Did they take Joe Dawson here? Was he with you?"

"That son of a-"

"Shut it, Sam, or I'll have you stationed in Alaska." The older agent sighed. "They took Dawson and Heddie into the supply closet for questioning. The key is on top of the door frame."

On the other side of the room, Merv was trying to pry the hinges off the door with a piece of scrap metal.

"I don't know what went on in there, but they have been silent since the immortal left. One of his disciples might have… well, go get them out of there. Joe's a good man, a good friend. A good Watcher. I'd hate to lose him over this.'

MacLeod could only agree.

"Alright. The others are already on their way out with an armed escort... I need you three to stay put and stay quiet. We don't know exactly how many guards he has in the building. And don't let this one do anything stupid." MacLeod looked pointedly at Kitridge, then turned to the closet.

"Merv. Relax. The key is on top of the door."

The Watcher paused, blinked at the hinges, then tilted his head up to the door frame. He had to hop up onto tip-toes and stretch to reach the key - for a moment, MacLeod was reminded of the short immortal who started all this, who was probably locked up somewhere in this building, unless Methos had found him already.

But for now, Joe. Merv unlocked the door and pushed it open slowly, stopping when it hit something solid on the other side.

"There's a body blocking the door. Shit."

MacLeod inched in behind him, careful not to push the door further against the solid mass - the body - on the other side.

"Tom? Joe?"

No answer, but a faint rustling, and the sound of someone trying to talk through duct tape. MacLeod scrambled for his pen light.

"Shit."

His Watcher was zip tied to a water pipe and fully conscious. That meant Murphy's partner was the body behind the door.

"Merv, it's-"

"Give me the damned flashlight. He's still alive, he's just been knocked out."

The light flicked over to where the Irishman was kneeling, struggling to pull his partner upright. He was slumped over on one side, blocking the door with his head and back. He tossed the light to Merv and went about cutting more zip ties.

A few minutes later, they finally maneuvered the two men out of the supply closet. Heddie was tall, bulky, and severely concussed - another ex-military, MacLeod guessed.

"You're going after the samurai now?" Merv was looking at him with hard blue eyes. He nodded. "Good. The _nightingale _- Niimura - he doesn't deserve this. I know you're not his teacher, the one he always goes to for help, but… do us all a favor and end it, alright? The rest of us can get out on our own."

MacLeod nodded again; Joe moved silently to his side.

"I won't convince you to leave with them, will I?"

"Nope. Somebody has to Watch, buddy."

MacLeod felt he was reaching a very Zen state of acceptance nowadays.

As he waved the Watchers along towards an exit, a concussed voice drifted back, slurring "holy shit, tha' was Duncan MacLeod!"

And then he was alone with Joe, two dead bodies, and a surprisingly awkward silence.

"So. The Watchers actually went to you for help, huh?"

"Methos did. It seems Adam Pierson took over after the kidnapping."

"Did he now. The review board is gonna love that. Where is he now?"

"Officially? Outside keeping watch. In reality, oh, somewhere around here. Fighting Jubei, or at least that was the plan. Now that the Watchers are out of here, I can..."

"Stop him from letting that sonofabitch go, again?"

"Pretty much. He went in through the front - I haven't heard anything, so they're probably on the other side of the building." MacLeod set off towards the east side of the building, the unrenovated section, perfect for two immortals looking to work out their differences. Joe limped after him.

"You're not hurt, are you?"

" a few bumps and bruises."

He rubbed his cheek, where the duct tape had ripped out a section of stubble. MacLeod had to force himself to keep pace with the slower man, telling himself that the older immortal could handle himself alone for a few extra minutes.

"The guy in there with me, Heddie, he took the worst of it. Jubei didn't get much out of anyone, but I can guarantee he's figured out the basics by now. If he makes it out of here and starts talking about spy organizations and mortals with secret tattoos, we could have a war on our hands."

And if Jubei gained access to the Watcher network... Niimura would never be able to run fast enough or far enough. MacLeod felt that annoying tightness in his chest, the one he got when he was feeling extra self-righteous. He was pretty sure Methos wouldn't mind so much, this time around.

They arrived at a heavy steel door, leading to a more rundown part of the warehouse - they were getting close. MacLeod could only hope they weren't too late.


	11. The big fight

Chapter 11

The section was poorly lit, empty, and smelled vaguely of fish. Jubei's guards had kept mostly to the office area, leaving the layers of dirt and grime in this section undisturbed. It was a large building, MacLeod considered, and the only thing they'd found so far was Watchers and old office furniture.

"Why does he even have this place? He was only after one immortal. It's not like he'd be looking to set up base or anything."

"My best guess is that he bought or rented it after they stormed HQ. We were locked in the van for a half-hour while one of them was on the phone, probably figuring out where to bring us."

The sound of swords clashing echoed down the hall, and Macleod picked up the pace.

"Do you know how many guards he took with him?"

"Three of his original guards. They carry swords, but there's no indication that they're immortal. After that, I'd say he has around fifteen to twenty hired thugs, mostly off the street. Subtract however many ran into Mike's crew, or you... Maybe five? Ten?"

The sounds were coming through another steel door – someone had used a crumbling piece of brick to prop it open. Keeping Joe back with one arm, the highlander peeked his head through the door to check for danger.

The room was large, nearly half the entire building, with cement floors, metal sheeting on the walls, and a high ceiling. Some of the discarded scrap showed signs of being shifted recently, and a small oil fire was burning near the door. Several bodies slumped, dead or unconscious, near the middle of the floor. Two fighters of equal height were circling each other against the far wall - they had been fighting for some time, and both were bloody and ragged.

"What's going on?" Joe leaned in, trying to see past the Scot's hair.

"Stay here. I'm going in, in case he tries any more dirty tricks."

He slipped through the door, not entirely surprised when the mortal followed him. ("Hey, it's my job!")

Methos and Jubei continued to circle each other, although it became clear that Methos was slowly chasing the other man around the room. He took a wild swing at the samurai - Jubei blocked, but the blow rattled down his arms. Methos advanced; Jubei retreated.

MacLeod rocked back on his heels and let himself watch the fight.

Methos attacked again, this time following up with a kick at Jubei's legs. Again, he slashed at Jubei's side. Again, a series of fast, hard swings. Again. Again. The old man was pounding on Jubei's sword, only breaking through the man's guard occasionally - but the effort required to block prevented the samurai from attacking, and was slowly wearing down his strength.

As for Jubei, he was just barely holding his own, sneering and spitting at his opponent whenever he could catch his breath. MacLeod couldn't make out the words, and it was a safe bet that Joe couldn't lipread Japanese. Judging by the look on the old man's face, whatever he was saying was pretty vile.

He'd never actually seen Methos take the offense. Fast, erratic, and heavy, it wasn't what he expected - if he'd had any expectations at all. As he watched, Methos's broadsword slapped the katana out of the way, and he landed a hard left-handed punch to Jubei's chin. Jubei stumbled away, dazed and cursing.

Methos stalked after him, bringing the fight closer to the door. Duncan could make out a few more details of the fighters - hints of what had gone on while he was rescuing the Watchers. Methos was down to his undershirt and ruined slacks, his white skin smudged with sweat, dirt, and what appeared to be soot... raw pink skin on his right arm suggested he'd run afoul of something hot, maybe set on fire. Light glanced off his left hand - were those brass knuckles?

"Remind me never to piss off the old man."

"I don't even know if I can call it sword fighting."

The long battle had left Jubei covered in sweat and blood as well, and his clothes were cut to ribbons. He'd taken at least a half dozen mortal wounds, judging by the stains. Methos was etting him heal.

Jubei's retreat was cut off by the oil fire near the door. He hissed something at Methos again, loud enough that the highlander could make out some of what was said.

"... after a few decades he'd forget …...on his knees …... good little-" -

MacLeod decided to stop listening.

Methos cut him off anyway, slamming his elbow into Jubei's temple - excellent Mui Tai technique - then jumping back awkwardly to avoid Jubei's katana. Jubei stopped short, the first hint of panic flashing across his face. He'd finally noticed the other immortal in the room.

"I knew you wouldn't fight fair, demon!"

"Well... yeah." Ooh, it was a little too satisfying to hear that 'you're an idiot, MacLeod' tone turned on someone who actually deserved it. A vein throbbed on Jubei's forehead.

"Guards! "

Silence. No guards ran to his rescue.

"About that - they're all , even the ones you thought were hiding."

Jubei screamed in rage, and reached behind himself - MacLeod jerked forward in surprise, as the samurai pulled out a gun and fired on his opponent.

Methos stumbled back, but didn't fall.

"Kevlar. I mean, come on, Jubei. Have you ever known me to walk into one of your traps without a backup plan or six?"

Methos smiled and attacked again, harder, bloodying Jubei's face. The gun was tossed aside. Finally a hit to the head knocked the samurai to the ground and sent his sword skittering off. He landed heavily against a stack of smoldering wood pallets.

The Ivanhoe raised one last time. His face twisted into a mask of hate, Methos set up the beheading.

"I'll think of him! As you kill me, I'll be thinking of him."

Methos froze.

"How he bleeds, how he cries, that scream he screams only for me. The taste of his fear. The look in his eyes when he's chained down and fucked by a team of drunken soldiers. The way the corners of his mouth-"

"I'll kill you!"

"-crack and tear after he's been used too many times. The way it feels to push inside him while he can't-"

Methos roared, and swung his broadsword down - straight through the wooden pallet next to Jubei's head. He couldn't do it.

"Get out of my sight, you son of a bitch. Crawl back under your rock."

And that was that.

Yanking his sword free, he left his opponent on the ground and wandered over to a large vault door - an old walk-in refrigeration unit, held shut with another shiny new padlock. Well, at least the old man had figured out where Niimura was stashed.

Watching the older immortal turn his back on Jubei, MacLeod was hit with a sudden sense of déjà vu. He saw himself in Methos's shoes, watching a stupid young Scotsman walk away from a fight - leaving himself and his student in danger.

Methos never _had_ convinced him to kill Kristin. He'd known it was the right thing to do, and he'd raised his sword against her, but he couldn't be the one to kill her. How could he? In the end, Methos had done what he couldn't do.

And now it was his turn.

"Pick it up."

Whatever memories were floating around in the Samurai's head, they weren't tied to anyone MacLeod knew or loved, or anything he'd ever meant nothing to him, and would fade away in a matter of days.

"Jubei. Pick up your sword."

"My fight is with him, not you!"

Methos spared a glance at the samurai over his shoulder, before ducking into the refrigeration unit and shutting the door tight. MacLeod could take the samurai's head, or let him run away with his tail between his legs, whatever he chose.

"Your fight with him is over. You fight me now. Arm yourself."

Jubei stood up, eyes darting around the room for anyone to save him; all he saw was a crippled old mortal, one of those tattooed freaks, pointing his own gun at him.

"My guards-!" he bluffed desperately.

"Are probably dead. Don't be a fool, Jubei."

"If you kill me," he began again, "you'll take my quickening, my memories. You'll know how it felt to-"

"I just met the guy yesterday. I'm not exactly looking forward to it, but you and your memories aren't going to linger around in my head after you're gone. I've killed a lot of really bad guys. I killed Kallas, and the Kurgan. I even took out two horsemen of the apocalypse - did you know they were immortal? Something tells me you're going to be nothing compared to Caspian." MacLeod smiled his worst smile, the one he'd picked up during his dark quickening. "So why don't you pick up your sword."

Desperate, Jubei stumbled over to where his sword had landed and picked it up.


	12. The happy ending

Chapter 12

The battle was over before it really began; Jubei was shaken, exhausted, out of tricks, out of henchmen, and no match for MacLeod even on a good day. It was only a matter of lining up a clean head shot.

The highlander advanced, engaging Jubei with a clean swing. This was the kind of fighting Jubei had been raised on, but he had done better in the alley - now his arms were heavy, his body exhausted. A thrust, a parry, then MacLeod's katana scored a deep cut to the arm. Two more attacks, and Jubei's guard was down, his neck exposed.

And in one clean swing, his head hit the floor.

The world held its breath, anticipation hanging in the air. Then the quickening rose from Jubei's body in a heavy mist, sparking and setting little fires around the room. He felt its weight settle on his soul, sick and sour. Jumbled memories assaulted his mind: his first death at the hand of some nameless soldier; a cruel but beloved teacher; a man with bottle-blond hair and raw wrists; a young boy crying; a curvy young girl - his most recent child-student-slave, who hadn't lasted out the year; lighter moments, the joy of a good cup of at the misshapen demon who killed his teacher and stole what was his. Visceral, evil images flashed by, pleasures that MacLeod's drowning mind couldn't begin to process. And above it all, swirling with lust and rage, a growing obsession with the one who always, always got away.

The windows closest to the quickening exploded, covering the floor in shattered glass.

Everything that was Jubei had washed through him, some of it so alien that it was like he was watching through fogged glass. By the time the electricity settled, Jubei's memories were already fading, leaving only a vague queasiness in MacLeod's stomach.

After taking a few moments to cool off, MacLeod rapped a playful 'shave-and-a-hair-cut' on the door of the refrigeration unit. The door popped open in answer, and Methos peeked his head out.

"It's over?"

"It's over."

"He's dead?"

Duncan leaned to one side, so the other immortal could see behind him. Jubei's body was collapsed on the floor, his head decidedly unattached.

"I see." Eyebrows raised. "And how does Duncan MacLeod feel about that?"

How did he feel about it? MacLeod wasn't sure. He didn't like the idea of being manipulated into killing the other immortal's enemies... but at the same time, he'd killed men for less. One thing was for certain, though - he didn't regret it.

"I guess... somebody had to do it."

That surprised a laugh out of Methos, breaking the strange tension between them.

"He's dead!" Suddenly the old man was grinning at him. Where had all the man's cool cynicism gone? "_Nightingale! Did you hear that?"_

Methos's head disappeared back behind the vault door for a moment - then reappeared, dragging a bedraggled Niimura out behind him like a sullen teenager.

"What do you mean, he's- oh."

He stopped short. This was interesting, MacLeod thought to himself. How would the man react to his first teacher's death? Where were his loyalties? Something inside of him was deeply possessive of those loyalties, but that voice was quickly fading.

"He's dead."

"As a doornail."

He looked at Methos.

"And you didn't kill him?"

"I didn't kill him, no. I was with you when the quickening happened, wasn't I?"

Niimura looked at the dead body for a long minute, memories swelling to the surface.

INDIA, 1601

_The house was in shambles: lamps broken, pillows torn apart, bookshelves upended and mirrors smashed. The dinner table had been overturned, taking a Ming Dynasty vase down with it. There were even flecks of blood on one of the smooth white walls, and along the floor towards the kitchen. _

_You'd think the fight had happened here, not miles away._

"_I'll never, ever forgive you."_

"_I know._

_His chest heaved, his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword._

"_You've betrayed me. Don't try to make any excuses."_

"_I won't."_

_He raised the sword, pointing it menacingly in his teacher's face._

"_I never want to see you again!"_

_That forced a sharp breath from the older immortal. _

"_I understand."_

"_Damn you! I had him right there, and you just- you- "_

_He turned away, taking his anger out on another innocent vase. Mouth worried into a thin line, Methos said nothing._

"_After everything he did to me, I finally- I finally see him, I'm finally free to draw a sword on him, I'm finally good enough to defeat him- so much better than him! This nightmare of a life is over, once and for all, I can finally be safe - free - and you stop me! How- WHY?"_

_He hacked his sword into the door frame and swung his fist at the taller man's jaw, sending a few more flecks of blood to spatter against the wall. Then he stormed away, throwing himself onto the battered couch, his anger finally, finally guttering out._

"_And don't give me any of that Aurelius business. I deserve my revenge."_

"_Yes, you do."_

_There was a long, uncomfortable pause, in which the young immortal picked sullenly at his fingernails._

"_Then why? Why stop me?"_

_Methos drew a shaky breath, still standing frozen at the door. _

"_When I was young," he started, then stopped. His mouth worked for a moment, before he found words. "When I was young - not mortal, not a new immortal, but still relatively young - there was a man named Gilean. Don't mistake me, I'd been tortured before, and by far worse. And at that point, I'd done my own fair share of torturing- more than fair," he swallowed._

"_You were-?"_

"_I'll tell you sometime when we're both very drunk. But he was immortal, and when I got free, I killed him. I took his head, his quickening. The moment his head hit the floor it felt so, so good. But the quickening... quickenings carry memories, nightingale. Not just images, but feelings."_

"_He enjoyed it, you see. He loved to look into my eyes and watch me break. I remember suffering what he did to me, but I also remember doing it, how good my blood tastes, how intoxicating I look when I'm slowly suffocating. And I remember a time in my own life where I was like Gilraen... not as bad, no, but the memories are all mixed together now-" he shook himself, stuffing those thoughts back down where they belong. "Nightingale?"_

_He sat gingerly on the floor beside the couch, facing away from his student. He was frowning at his hands, pointedly not looking at the other immortal. _

"_Nightingale, you already wake up with nightmares about what he did to you. I will do anything in my power - short of letting you die - to make sure you never dream about enjoying it. First thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to hunt him down and kill him. I should have done it decades ago._

"_...no."_

"_What?" his head jerked sharply to look at his student._

"_I said no. Don't kill him."_

"_But-"_

"_Would I really keep his memories?"_

"_It doesn't happen every time, but... yes, there's a good chance."_

"_And you?"_

"_Me?" _

"_Would you keep his memories? Would you see my face next to all the people you hurt when you were younger? Don't lie to me."_

"_That's not what I-"_

"_I know that's not what you meant. But that's why you never killed him, isn't it?"_

"_...yes." _

_Damn him._

_He swallowed, still looking at his hands._

"_Then you're not to kill him." Finally, he turned to meet his teacher's eyes. "Having any part of him inside you... would be worse than any number of years at his side. Promise me you won't. And mean it."_

"_I... promise."_

"You killed my father." The shock was finally registering on his face. He seemed to be waiting for an answer.

"Yes, I did."

He turned his head to meet MacLeod's eyes. "And... you saw his memories?"

"Some of them. He was obsessed with you."

"It's really over, then. I don't have to run anymore." A smile broke out, like a crooked sun coming out from behind the clouds. "He's dead!"

He let out a whoop and launched himself at Methos, who swung him around in a playful circle. They were both laughing, Methos grinning at the highlander over his student's head. Then Niimura pulled away, remembering belatedly to thank MacLeod.

"So everything's hunky doory, then?" Joe's voice cut in. The Watcher was propped up against an empty drum near the door, far away from the fight and the shattered windows. He still held Jubei's gun loosely in one hand.

"We're good, Joe. Now let's get out of here before TCARD blows us all to smithereens."

"Jesus, who called in the death squad?"

"Don't look at me, I was probably scraping myself off a hotel floor at that point."

The bickering trailed down the hallway as they made their way out of the warehouse, and back out into the night.

The TCARD agents, as it turned out, had been detained at the airport and didn't make it into Paris until well after dawn. By then, the three immortals and one Watcher - two Watchers, counting Adam - had piled into the T-Bird and holed themselves up in Joe's bar. They were all too high on adrenaline to really sleep, although Joe dozed a bit in the car.

"A toast! To the end of a legend." Joe raised his glass - they were already on their third round - and saluted Niimura. "Congratulations on the end of the _nightingale_."

"He'll always be the nightingale, Joe. There's just no one chasing him anymore." Methos smirked, enjoying the mortal's light buzz. The bartender wasn't exactly a lightweight, but after three beers on an empty stomach - where was that pizza they ordered? - no sleep, and an adrenaline crash, a buzz was no surprise.

"You're right! To the last Flight of the Nightingale!" He drained his glass, then cursed and reached in his pocket for his cell phone. "I've gotta take this, it's the central office. Shit, why am I telling thee immortals - whatever. Hello?"

He wandered off to the back room, keeping some sense of Watcher secrecy, and left the immortals alone in the deserted bar.

"I'll get us another round, while he's gone." The day's events hadn't put a dent in the ancient immortal's love of beer.

"Hold on. I'll come with you."

Leaving the third immortal behind in the booth, MacLeod followed Methos to the bar. In the kind of comfortable silence he thought they'd lost in Bordeaux, he watched his friend pour another round of drinks.

"What will you do now?"

"Now?"

"Now that Niimura isn't on the run anymore." He remembered Alexa and that silly van they'd rented... Methos would probably spirit the other man away to parts unknown, hidden beaches, tropical paradise, ancient ruins...

"Oh, probably back to England for a few months, while I finish work on that dig near Stonehenge. I told you they'd found a beheaded skeleton there, didn't I? I think I might have killed him. Then I'll be kicking around here for a few years, maybe find a teaching position at your university."

"Here? Aren't you going to -"

"Run away with Tooru?" He smiled indulgently at the beer tap. "No. We could have gone off to Tahiti together whenever we wanted - he probably would have been safer with me, anyway. But he's got his own life, and his band. They're quite good, if you like that sort of music. This whole mess pulled him away from a tour."

It made sense, MacLeod had to admit. He'd never wanted Happily Ever After with Amanda, either. Maybe Methos's version of Amanda just came in short, surly, and male.

After another short silence, he finally brought up the subject that had been bouncing around between them since the horsemen.

"Methos.. did you plan this?"

"This?"

"Me, killing the samurai."

Oddly, MacLeod wasn't angry about what had happened, not like he'd been during the horsemen debacle. If anything, he was curious. How much of this was real, and how much had been planned out by a master strategist?

"What makes you think that, MacLeod?"

"Niimura wouldn't let you kill his teacher, wouldn't do it himself, and conveniently the whole mess ends up at my front door - literally."

"Coincidence." He smiled that Mona Lisa smile.

_Was it really? Then why did the same thing happen with Kronos? _He wanted to ask, but their friendship was only just returning to what it used to be. More to the point... he didn't think he cared that much anymore. It felt good that Methos would come to him with his problems. Wasn't home the place where you felt the safest?

"Think what you'd like, MacLeod, but I didn't ask or force you to kill him."

"No, you didn't. But that's what friends are for, right? To watch your back, help you when you've gotten yourself into a five-hundred-year mess?"

Methos settled down, looking at MacLeod curiously.

"I guess so. Look, MacLeod. I haven't said it yet, but thank you. This..." his brows furrowed, "meant a lot to me. I know we don't always agree-"

"It's ok, Methos. I'll be here whenever you need me." And it was true, he thought to himself. Just like Amanda or Fitzcarin, Methos had wormed his way into the MacLeod clan. For better or worse.

End

That's all, folks.


End file.
